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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468934">Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nantdisglair/pseuds/nantdisglair'>nantdisglair</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Onmyouji | The Yin-Yang Master (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Case Fic, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:42:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,470</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468934</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nantdisglair/pseuds/nantdisglair</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ordered to investigate the horrible case of a corpse-eating ghost, Seimei and Hiromasa uncover not one haunting, but two...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Abe no Seimei/Minamoto no Hiromasa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Spook Me 2020; the prompt was ‘ghost’.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It wasn’t necessary, after a relationship had been established, for a lover to compose morning-after letters to his beloved, but Hiromasa liked to do it nonetheless. Dawn was the perfect moment for tender thoughts, especially at this time of year when a heavy dew lay upon the grass and the first delicate traceries of frost touched russet-tinged leaves. The sun came up muted at first, like affection itself, then burned through the swaddling mists and showed itself in splendour.</p>
<p>Yes, this was the perfect moment, the perfect morning, for poetry; and yet Hiromasa found himself huddled inside loosely-laced robes beside a brazier, paper untouched in front of him and a brush as yet undipped in the deep black ink he’d ground and mixed with such care.</p>
<p>In the safety of his mind he chased words into phrases, discarding some, polishing others, all the while keeping his gaze fastened on Seimei.</p>
<p>Long black hair unbound and loosened by sleep, spread over a pillow. Sharp features softened, mouth curved in a smile more generous than he would permit awake. Elegant hands tucked within robes of violet and white figured silk. The sense of comfort and contentment…</p>
<p>Hiromasa’s heart swelled with emotion. He brought the sheet of paper closer and dipped the rabbit-fur brush in the ink. The poem was within reach. He closed his eyes, focused, a crystallisation of feeling and—</p>
<p>An almighty crash split the silence.</p>
<p>Hiromasa dropped the brush. It bounced off his knee, spattering ink across the pretty orange-tinted paper, and rolled over the floor, dabbing a trail of black in its wake. Exclaiming, Hiromasa jumped to his feet just as a dozen shikigami came hurtling into the room. He ducked his head against the whirlwind of their arrival, too shocked by the continuing smash and boom—was the house collapsing? Had there been an earthquake? A demon attack?—to care that he was in dishabille.</p>
<p>Seimei roused with such casual aplomb that Hiromasa suspected he’d been awake already and had just been pretending to sleep. Either way, he sat and drew the violet robe about his shoulders, cocking his head to follow the antics of the distressed shikigami.</p>
<p>Some wailed and wept at the furthest side of the room. Another had made herself small enough to wedge inside the neck of last night’s discarded wine jar. Several buzzed around the room, human in form but behaving more like insects or wind-borne leaves. Their dismay and agitation was clear to behold, even if Hiromasa couldn’t understand the language they used.</p>
<p>Seimei stood and said something in his sonorous, rolling voice, and the shikigami calmed. One by one they flittered into paper dolls or fallen leaves. The one in the wine jar transformed back into a golden chrysanthemum. Only Mitsumushi remained, emitting sounds very different to the human speech in which she occasionally indulged. Her blue silks swished and her hair ornaments chimed and flashed.</p>
<p>Her narrative finished, she shrank and changed into a butterfly. For a moment she hovered in the air above Seimei, then she looped over Hiromasa’s head and took flight beyond the veranda, into the garden.</p>
<p>“It seems that the east wing has been destroyed,” Seimei said.</p>
<p>Hiromasa jerked his gaze from Mitsumushi’s dance. “Destroyed? How?”</p>
<p>Seimei laced his hakama and fastened his under-robes in layers of elegant white, ice blue, and violet. “The reports were rather garbled, but…” He didn’t finish the sentence but strode off, hair still loose about his shoulders and his feet bare.</p>
<p>Hiromasa followed him, conscious of the chill in the air. Seimei left a series of warm footprints on the polished floorboards, the imprint lingering for just a few moments before the cold stole it away. Wishing he’d brought his cloak, Hiromasa rubbed his arms and hastened his steps, hurrying past folding screens, sandalwood chests, and unlit braziers, around astronomical instruments and piles of books and a tumble of scrolls, until he emerged onto the veranda overlooking the bridgeway to the east wing.</p>
<p>Or rather, to what was left of the east wing.</p>
<p>Bamboo blinds and lattice shutters lay strewn and wrecked. Glazed roof-tiles had collapsed inward. Beams had splintered and smashed, poking up like the ribs of a decaying carcass. Standing curtains had been torn down, mats had been scattered; chests and cabinets had been overturned and the contents spilled. It was a scene of utter devastation—and the cause of it all crept its thick, solid tendrils about the ruin, dragging its mismatched, over-large fruit behind it. The plant’s yellowing, ragged leaves shivered as it explored its new territory.</p>
<p>Seimei regarded the destruction with a mild expression. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have fed it with water from the Kamo River.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa gaped. “Seimei! Why has the gourd plant destroyed your house?”</p>
<p>The question raised a faint smile. “I doubt it had a motive.”</p>
<p>“But to grow so fast! And to be so destructive!”</p>
<p>“It is a vine,” Seimei said, as if that explained everything. “Like all growing things, it needs to be trained. It is unfortunate that, lately, I have been remiss in caring for my garden.”</p>
<p>“You were busy with court matters,” Hiromasa said in a robust tone, “and that—that <i>plant</i> took advantage.”</p>
<p>The look Seimei turned on him was one of polite disbelief.</p>
<p>“Well,” Hiromasa continued, lowering his tone to a mutter, “it <i>is</i> a man-eating gourd, after all; naturally it is bad-mannered and uncouth. A sensible person wouldn’t trust it. Really it should have been cut down and burned to ashes, but some people preferred to plant the thing in their own garden, and tend to it, and this is how it repays their kindness…”</p>
<p>Seimei’s lips twitched; he turned his head to hide a smile. “I will rectify matters, Hiromasa.”</p>
<p>“And in the meantime? You can’t stay here!” Hiromasa’s clove-tan damask sleeve flapped with the force of his gesture. “Your house is one of the oldest in the capital. Believe me, Seimei, I’ve seen this kind of situation before—my great-uncle’s house was almost as old as yours, built at the time of Emperor Heizei. A more pleasant residence you can’t imagine, with a garden that poets wept over… Anyway, the music pavilion was struck by lightning and the fire quickly spread to the west wing. Fortunately Great-Uncle had an army of staff to douse the flames, and the house was saved, but he didn’t make repairs to the west wing in good time because of some disagreement with the palace about borrowing the carpenters, and—” He paused to draw breath, aware that he’d long ago circled off the point, which often happened when he was around Seimei.</p>
<p>“And?” his companion prompted gently.</p>
<p>“And, well, his house fell down.” Hiromasa brought his hands together in a muted clap. “One by one, the galleries and bridgeways collapsed, toppling the roof-tiles, bringing down the walls, ripping through screens and tangling blinds. It made the most appalling mess. And do you know what the Master Carpenter said, when he came to survey what was left? He said it was inevitable.” Hiromasa nodded, convinced that he’d made his point. “It was inevitable that the whole house would fall down, because Great-Uncle hadn’t started the repairs on the west wing right away.”</p>
<p>Seimei stood silent for a moment, studying the bulging limbs of the vine with its stranglehold in the ruins of his east wing. “Repairs are expensive and the labour intensive, especially at this time of year. The weather makes it harder for craftsmen to practice their trade.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa tried to be delicate with the obvious question. “You wouldn’t… use other methods to make repairs?”</p>
<p>Dark eyes narrowed in amusement. “I know you think I have unlimited control over shikigami, but they only do what they want to do. Dressing in gowns of finest silk and escorting me about the city or serving me drinks and nibbles on a summer’s evening is all very well, but putting them to work rebuilding my house?” Seimei’s brows flashed. “They would react to that suggestion with as much grace as if I asked you to do it yourself.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa rubbed the back of his neck. “I am not very good with my hands.”</p>
<p>A warm rumble of laughter. “I wouldn’t say that.”</p>
<p>“Seimei!” A blush heating his face, Hiromasa squirmed pleasurably. “Very well, magic is out of the question.” It charmed him a little more each time whenever Seimei admitted he couldn’t do <i>everything</i>. “Fortunately, the Chief Steward of the Imperial Household is a relative of mine—”</p>
<p>“Of course he is,” Seimei murmured.</p>
<p>“He’s my aunt’s second husband,” Hiromasa continued, ignoring the remark, “so technically he’s my uncle, but he’s not that much older than me and— Well, my aunt says he’s a very vigorous man so he must be good at his job—”</p>
<p>Seimei was laughing silently, his shoulders shaking.</p>
<p>Hiromasa glared. “To conclude, Nakamaro will be pleased to help you. Or rather, me, but through me, you. I will visit him this morning and request his assistance. In the meantime…” an idea of true brilliance came to him, brightening his mood, “you can move in with me.”</p>
<p>Seimei swung to face him, all trace of humour gone. “I beg your pardon?”</p>
<p>He hadn’t expected such a coolly formal response. Hiromasa swallowed and broadened his smile. “Move in with me. You can’t stay here with the house in disrepair, and once the craftsmen arrive, you won’t <i>want</i> to stay here because of all the noise and comings and goings. Fixing the east wing… <i>rebuilding</i> the east wing, I should say,” he frowned at the vine shoots, noting the extent of their grip on the remains of the building, “will take several weeks. Perhaps the rest of the year. It’s autumn, and it’s getting cold, and I won’t have you homeless.”</p>
<p>“Thank you for the offer, but I will be well enough.” The response was almost as frosty as the ground.</p>
<p>Hurt pulsed like a paper cut, sudden and sharp. Still smiling, his face muscles aching, Hiromasa said, “Please, Seimei, just think about it. I assure you, I would expect nothing in return.”</p>
<p>But was that quite true? Hiromasa turned his head and bit his lip, emotions twisting and knotted. He’d long been aware that having two households was the only sensible way of conducting their relationship, given Seimei’s nature and his erratic role at court, but that didn’t mean he didn’t yearn for a closer connection.</p>
<p>Only rarely did Seimei visit Hiromasa’s house on Rokujo Avenue; as rarely as he stayed over in Hiromasa’s rooms in the imperial palace. For too long he’d let this behaviour go unchallenged, but now the time had come to press Seimei on it, to question why, Hiromasa was unprepared and afraid of what the answer might be.</p>
<p>Perhaps reading his thoughts on his face, Seimei held out a hand. Hiromasa took it, holding it between both of his hands. Seimei was cold, his breath emerging in a little cloud, his narrow feet pale against the frost-dusted veranda.</p>
<p>“I would make a very poor guest.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa shook his head. “I know you would not. Believe me, Seimei, it will be simplicity itself. The north pavilion shall be made ready for your exclusive use. It is well-appointed and comfortable, with views across the garden, and it is large enough for you to bring your books and scrolls and astrolabes and anything else you may require. The garden has a sheltered corner where the flowers bloom even late in the year. I hope… I think Mitsumushi would enjoy it.”</p>
<p>“You’re a very good man.” A regretful smile on his lips, Seimei disentangled his hand. The figured silk of his robes hushed, sheened with cold. “But I must refuse. My place is here. I have a connection with this house.”</p>
<p>This time Hiromasa made no attempt to hide his hurt. “But I thought… Don’t we have a connection, too?”</p>
<p>Seimei looked at him, eyes very bright. His lips parted. Hiromasa braced himself for an answer, shoulders rising up and muscles tensing, when a thunderous knocking at the gate broke the moment.</p>
<p>“Hiromasa…” Something shifted behind Seimei’s gaze; he reached out.</p>
<p>The knocking continued, accompanied now by incoherent shouts.</p>
<p>The damned frost had got into Hiromasa’s eyes, making them sting. “You should answer that.” He kept his tone even, speaking past the lump in his throat. “It sounds important.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>The Minister of the Left, Lord Fujiwara, wore an expression more disagreeable than usual. His neat little moustaches seemed to droop, and the black court silks he wore emphasised his thin frame. The many burdens of state weighed upon his narrow shoulders, his frown cut deep into his forehead, and his posture, as he sat in his office within the Inner Palace, was one of a man who wished to be somewhere more pleasant, preferably far away from the capital.<p>Standing beside him was the Minister of Ceremonial, Lord Morotada, a corpulent figure who mopped his brow often and expressed loud sighs. Silver-embroidered cranes took flight amongst autumn flowers on his robes of maroon and olive green. He tapped his feet and gazed out at the path of the sun. No doubt if he’d had access to a portable water-clock, he’d be checking every drop.</p>
<p>Hiromasa bowed to each of them; Seimei did not. The Minister of the Left ignored the slight, but Morotada sniffed in offence.</p>
<p>“When Lord Seimei answers a summons, Lord Hiromasa is swift to follow,” Fujiwara remarked with a half smile. “No, no, do not bridle at me, Hiromasa; it is not a criticism, merely an observation of fortunate chance. Two heads are wiser than one, and I have been presented with a puzzle to test even Lord Seimei’s wits.”</p>
<p>Seimei’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “What manner of puzzle, Excellency?”</p>
<p>The Minister of the Left gestured to Morotada. “Fetch the merchant and his son.”</p>
<p>For a moment it looked as if the Minister of Ceremonial was about to refuse, then, with another pointed glance at the position of the sun and a drawn-out sigh, he turned about and waddled across the polished wooden floor. At a carved camphorwood screen by the door he paused and called out in a reedy voice, quite at odds with his size, “Send in the victims!”</p>
<p>Hiromasa stared. “Victims? A crime has been committed?”</p>
<p>“Of sorts.” Fujiwara’s tone was dry. “It is proving quite the conundrum. Also, the subject is most distasteful. It touches the very heart of the palace, and raises concerns about the… nature of those who serve here.” He flicked a faintly contemptuous look towards Morotada. “As you can see, the dignity of the Minister of Ceremonial is rather ruffled. He does fuss so, and I dislike fuss.”</p>
<p>Dark eyes studied Hiromasa, then swept over Seimei. “Your previous success with… unpleasant situations leads me to believe you may find a way to resolve this problem.”</p>
<p>“Thank you for your trust in us, Your Excellency.” Pleased to have an opportunity to excel, even if it did involve as yet unspecified unpleasantness, Hiromasa beamed in enthusiasm. “You can rely on us.”</p>
<p>Expression shuttered, eyes narrowed in thought, Seimei’s response was “Mm.”</p>
<p>Morotada returned. Accompanying him were two men, one middle-aged, with rings upon his fingers and plain dark garments of exquisite cut and fabric. The other was younger, and from the resemblance was the son of the older man. The young man wore grey patterned silks as fine as anything flaunted by court nobles, and his mien was one of dull rage. His father patted his hand as they came to a halt and bowed around the room.</p>
<p>“This is the silk merchant Muneyo and his son, Tsunate.” Morotada made the introductions. “They came to the palace at dawn with a horrible tale, one vouched for by one of the city’s night-watchmen. So extraordinary did I deem it that I sent word at once to His Excellency.”</p>
<p>The Minister of the Left sat forward in his chair and addressed the men. “Tell these lords what transpired last night. Leave no detail out—Lord Seimei is an onmyouji of some renown. If he cannot help you…”</p>
<p>Seimei stiffened at the implied challenge. Beside him, Hiromasa hid a smile. Lord Fujiwara, it seemed, had Seimei’s measure. Competition was a way of life at court, a means of passing the time. Seimei despised such activities as frivolous, yet when presented with a challenge, worked tirelessly to solve it.</p>
<p>The merchant came forward, wringing his hands. His cheeks were pale and his hair in some dishevelment. His gaze darted from Seimei to Hiromasa before settling on the floor somewhere between them.</p>
<p>“My lords,” his voice was quiet, full of trembling, “only these four days past my wife Aneko went to join her ancestors—”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hiromasa murmured, moved to sympathy.</p>
<p>Muneyo shot him a grateful look, then resumed speaking. “As Lord Morotada said, I am a silk merchant by trade, and a successful one at that. I can afford the best for my dear wife. We observed all the correct rituals, paid for prayers to be chanted by monks from several temples, and had a stele inscribed. All was made ready for the funeral. Last night—last night…”</p>
<p>His face crumpled and he turned aside, pressing a hand to his mouth.</p>
<p>With a glance at his father, Tsunate took up the tale. “My mother was laid out on a bier in our home. I’d found flowers for her. She always loved flowers.” The young man clenched his jaw, cleared his throat. “Father and I dressed in mourning clothes, as was proper. We fasted all day and took our places either side of Mother, ready to watch over her the whole night long. We lit the candles and began our vigil…”</p>
<p>“All was well,” Muneyo had brought himself under control and now spoke tonelessly, “until shortly after midnight. We heard the night-watchman call the hour, and then the candles were snuffed out, as if a great breath of wind had blown through the house. A powerful silence fell, and the door slid open. I can still hear it, such a quiet sound! And then—”</p>
<p>“It came in.” Tsunate balled his fists. “Something creeping low to the ground, like a dog. But it wasn’t a dog. It was larger, crawling across the floor on all fours. It babbled to itself, nonsense sounds and—and slavering…”</p>
<p>Muneyo gripped his son’s shoulder. His face was drawn and he was shaking, the burden of relating their experience almost too much for him. “We tried to move, to challenge the creature,” the merchant said. “But it was as if a spell had been cast. We couldn’t move, not even to cry out. We couldn’t turn our heads to look at one another. And it was dark, so very dark…”</p>
<p>“As if a cloud had entered?” Seimei asked. “As if all of night’s blackness had concentrated in that one room?”</p>
<p>“Yes, exactly.” Muneyo moved closer to his son. “We couldn’t see anything. But we could hear.”</p>
<p>He fell silent, and this time Tsunate didn’t rush to take up the narrative. They stood there, lost in their thoughts. Muneyo wore an expression of abject misery; Tsunate looked sickened.</p>
<p>Hiromasa glanced at Seimei, then asked, “What could you hear?”</p>
<p>A shudder crawled through Muneyo. He lifted his head, bleak gaze locking with Hiromasa. “Disgusting wet noises. The tearing of flesh. The sound of a wild animal feeding.”</p>
<p>Nausea rose in Hiromasa’s throat. “Are you saying—”</p>
<p>Muneyo swallowed. “Yes.”</p>
<p>Tsunate covered his face with his hands and began to weep in lurching sobs.</p>
<p>The Minister of Ceremonial looked alarmed. The Minister of the Left regarded both men with compassion.</p>
<p>“Your pardon, lords.” Muneyo chafed his son’s hands. There was a determination to him now to see the story through. “Shortly after, the night-watchman happened by. He’s a conscientious lad, always takes care to check the back lanes and alleyways. He saw the door was open and called out, ‘Ho there!’ My son and I were unable to reply, still frozen in place while the fiend mauled my wife’s body.</p>
<p>“The watchman came up the steps and shone his lantern into the room. In that moment, we all saw what had been done to Aneko. Her white robes were in disarray, and the demon had gnawed—it had eaten…”</p>
<p>Hiromasa looked at Seimei. They had faced many demons together, and gods, too, but this was truly repulsive. When he was a child, his nurse used to tell him scary stories about hungry ghosts; when he was older, his father warned him not to pass through the capital’s burial grounds, especially at night, for fear of a ghost attacking him.</p>
<p>He shivered. It seemed the old stories were true.</p>
<p>Tsunate wiped his face on his sleeve. When he spoke, his voice was cold and angry. “The watchman came to assist us. He was shouting, raising the alarm. As soon as he crossed the threshold with his lantern, the demon fled. At the same time, Father and I discovered we could move again. It was chaos—the monster snarling away from the light, then knocking down the watchman as it ran out of the house. The watchman saved his lantern from falling, and he and I gave chase. Father stayed to—to cover Mother’s body and call a servant to sit with her, and then he followed us.”</p>
<p>Seimei pressed his palms together and touched his fingertips to his mouth. “Did you get a good look at the demon before it fled?”</p>
<p>Father and son glanced at each other. “It was dark,” Muneyo said. “When the lantern shone in, all I could see was Aneko’s body. The demon was a blur, a grey-skinned thing with spindly limbs and a bloated belly. Like a spider, but dressed in ragged clothing. I’m sorry, Lord Seimei, but at the time I saw no more than that.”</p>
<p>“And you?” Seimei asked Tsunate.</p>
<p>The young man shook his head. “I saw it only briefly before it ran away. It had wild, unbound hair. I saw its eyes, wide and white like the moon. Its mouth, red and wet. It was horrible.”</p>
<p>Seimei nodded. “Where did the demon go? West or east?”</p>
<p>“I caught up with Tsunate and the watchman at the Rashomon Gate,” Muneyo said. “We went east, crossing the Kamo River. We were close to the burial grounds when we saw it again, crouched to one side of the road and almost hidden in the bushes. It was scuffling through offerings it must have dragged from the tombs—pawing at flowers and rubbing incense over its face, shovelling in mouthfuls of rice from cheap bowls. When it saw us, it leapt to its feet with a cry and stuffed what was left of its haul into its rotting garments.”</p>
<p>“You saw it clearly this time,” Seimei said.</p>
<p>“We did.” Tsunate stood taller. “The same grey skin and thin limbs, the same unkempt hair and milky-white eyes. The watchman and I charged at it. I don’t know what we intended to do if we caught it—I wasn’t thinking straight. But we didn’t get near it. Again, the light from the lantern terrified the fiend, and it fled through the undergrowth faster than any human could run. We gave chase, but when it ran into the heart of the cemetery, we decided not to follow.”</p>
<p>“A wise decision. The burial grounds are not safe for the living between dusk and dawn.” Seimei lowered his hands, unclasped them. He stood for a while in thought, then cocked his head at Muneyo. “You did not give chase. Why not?”</p>
<p>The merchant shook his head. “I was too shocked. I couldn’t believe it. You see, I recognised the demon.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” said Seimei. “Now we come to it. Are you certain of the identification?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” Distress pulled at Muneyo’s face. “I delivered cloth to him on numerous occasions while he still lived. He used to dress so beautifully, with such elegance! His kind words at court about the quality of my silk brought me many customers… My heart breaks when I consider what has become of him now.”</p>
<p>“Father!” Tsunate stared at him in astonishment. “Show no compassion for that demon! Think of what it did—what it will do to other innocent people if it isn’t stopped!”</p>
<p>Muneyo nodded and squared his shoulders. “You’re right, son. Your Excellency, my lords, I recognised the demon, even in his pitiful state. It was Tajihi no Yoshitsugu.”</p>
<p>Surprise jerked through Hiromasa. “The musician?”</p>
<p>“The very same, my lord.” Muneyo smoothed his sleeves, worrying at the fabric. “Even now, months after his demise, he was instantly recognisable.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa turned to Seimei. “You are so rarely at court, perhaps you do not know—but Tajihi no Yoshitsugu was a talented musician. His favourite instruments were the koto and the flute, and in terms of performance and composition, few were his equal. I still remember the music he played at this year’s Kamo Festival…”</p>
<p>He shook off the memory of the lively tunes. “How is it possible he has become a demon? Reduced to attacking and scavenging from the unfortunate bodies of the deceased—what a horror, Seimei! We must do something!”</p>
<p>Seimei nodded. “Indeed.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure you can bring this matter to its conclusion, Lord Seimei.” The Minister of the Left grasped the armrests of his chair and pushed himself from the seat. His black silks sheened about him, turning him into a single long column of darkness. “I expect your report via Lord Morotada; apply to him in the first instance if you need anything.”</p>
<p>Morotada made a disgruntled sound and seemed about to argue when Fujiwara swung around to pin him with a look.</p>
<p>“This matter impacts most heavily on your Ministry, my friend. Yoshitsugu was a musician, employed directly by Ceremonial. If he’s a demon this needs to be dealt with quickly, appropriately, and above all with discretion.” The Minister’s bland gaze travelled over the rest of them. “It goes without saying that the reputation of the courtiers who entertain the Emperor and his family must be beyond reproach.”</p>
<p>“Even when they’re dead?” Hiromasa asked.</p>
<p>A wintry smile flicked at Fujiwara’s mouth. “Especially when they’re dead.” He inclined his head a little, signalling the end of the meeting. “I await the report of your success. Lord Seimei, Lord Hiromasa, good day to you.”</p>
<p>They bowed, and the Minister of the Left departed, the merchant and his son following in his wake.</p>
<p>Morotada started speaking as soon as his superior’s footsteps had faded along the corridor outside. “You will have every assistance. Anything you need. Palace guards, secretaries, access to archives… Whatever you deem necessary.” His feet were shifting, his fingers twitching as he tracked the path of the sun. “Only please make an appointment. I’m a busy man. A very busy man. There is much preparation to be done for the Ceremony of the Poetry Dances, and without Yoshitsugu’s input… It would go easier if a new Second Musician had been appointed, but…”</p>
<p>He spread his chubby hands and exhaled a sigh. “I regret my First Assistant is unable to relieve me of a fraction of my many burdens; something must be done about that, but where can I find the time? Unfortunately, Second Assistant Saneda is a featherbrain whose chief concern is the exact matching of his colour combinations to those of whichever court lady has attracted his attention. Pretty plumage is all very well, I tell him, but you have nothing to offer for the long-term if your wits are begging.”</p>
<p>“Very true,” Hiromasa said, his tone soothing and his smile placatory. “We will make an appointment this very morning and await your convenience.”</p>
<p>“Obliged, Lord Hiromasa, I’m very much obliged,” Morotada said as he took his leave. “The mark of a true gentleman is patience, that’s what I always say.”</p>
<p>Left alone in the room, Hiromasa rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Well, Seimei. This is an unpleasant business. A corpse-eating demon! I would never have suspected it of Yoshitsugu. He was always such a nice, polite young man.”</p>
<p>Seimei tilted his head and arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps it wasn’t Yoshitsugu who attacked Muneyo’s wife.”</p>
<p>“But he saw him. Tsunate and the watchman, too. All three saw Yoshitsugu.”</p>
<p>“At the cemetery, yes.” Seimei’s voice was deep, thoughtful. “But not in Muneyo’s house.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa stared. “You think…”</p>
<p>“I do not think anything, yet.” Reaching up, Seimei adjusted the ribbons on his lacquered court cap. “I need to go to the Bureau of Divination and begin my enquiries.”</p>
<p>“<i>We</i> will begin our enquiries,” Hiromasa said, rather robustly.</p>
<p>A moment of stillness, and then Seimei relaxed into a smile. “Thank you, Hiromasa. I would not wish to take your assistance for granted.”</p>
<p>“You’ll accept my help in hunting demons, but won’t accept it when I offer you a roof over your head?”</p>
<p>Seimei paused at the door. “The two situations are somewhat different.”</p>
<p>“They need not be,” Hiromasa called after him. “We can hunt demons from my house. It is warm and snug, and most importantly,” he raised his voice so it reached along the corridor, “out of reach of a man-eating gourd!”</p>
<p>He waited, but if Seimei made a reply, he did not hear it.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>Hiromasa left the Inner Palace and went first to his aunt’s husband, the Chief Steward of the Imperial Household. Nakamaro, a genial, well-favoured young man, listened while Hiromasa explained in some detail the circumstances leading to his request. They drank a cup of wine together while they drew up plans, and Hiromasa left satisfied in the knowledge that three teams of carpenters and builders had been requisitioned for immediate despatch to Seimei’s house on Tsuchimidako Avenue.<p>As he cut through the pine garden towards the various offices that collectively made up the Ministry of Ceremonial, a smug smile played over Hiromasa’s lips. If Seimei wouldn’t unbend enough to consent to be his guest for a couple of months, then his friend would have to endure the ignominy of knowing that his new east wing was designed and paid for by none other than Minamoto no Hiromasa.</p>
<p>He stepped across the carpet of fallen pine needles, the ground soft and sharply fragrant beneath his feet. The frost hadn’t touched this part of the palace grounds, and birds sang from branches of shiny dark green. His smile brightened and he picked up his pace.</p>
<p>It was foolish to be jealous of a house, especially one so old and in such ramshackle condition. But he was jealous all the same; jealous of Seimei’s affection for and deep connection with the house. But now, with his contribution of a new east wing, Hiromasa reckoned Seimei would have to recognise <i>their</i> connection, too. Recognise it and acknowledge it.</p>
<p>He spent a few moments happily daydreaming about the type of acknowledgement Seimei might bestow on him, waking from the reverie only when he passed from soft earth to raked gravel. He blinked, suddenly aware of the chill in the air. He would have to fetch his fur-lined cloak from his quarters before he went home. Though the sun stood high in the cloudless sky, winter was deepening its grip.</p>
<p>The Kokamon Gate lay before him, surrounded on both sides by a cluster of buildings of dark wood and glazed tiles. Taking note of the signs hung above the doorways, Hiromasa climbed the few steps and entered one of the bureaus.</p>
<p>He’d hoped to see Morotada lounging around eating snacks and drinking wine, but the room was empty of life. Two desks, one clear of work, the other rapidly disappearing beneath it, flanked the door to the Minister’s office. It was open; Morotada was obviously busy elsewhere.</p>
<p>Taking the opportunity to poke around, Hiromasa examined the papers piled on the untidy desk. Letters from abbots and abbesses, requests for monastic names, a tally of donations to certain temples… He flicked through, then set them aside to walk about the office with a slow, measured tread.</p>
<p>A smaller door to the right opened and a thin, owl-faced man in a simple dark blue robe peered out. A lamp burned in the office behind him, illuminating a stack of correspondence. The man’s hands were soft and clean, but the left sleeve was flecked with black ink. He regarded Hiromasa steadily. “I am Under-Secretary Kiyokawa, my lord. May I be of assistance?”</p>
<p>Hiromasa put on his best smile and gestured to the empty desk. “I’m here to make an appointment with Lord Morotada, but I was wondering… where is the Minister’s First Assistant?”</p>
<p>“You’re after Otomo no Kanemichi?” Beetling eyebrows rose in faint amusement. “You’re looking in the wrong place.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“He’s dead.”</p>
<p>“Dead?” Hiromasa stared, his jaw going slack. When Morotada had spoken of his First Assistant, he’d made it sound like the man was indisposed rather than no longer amongst the living.</p>
<p>“Second Assistant Saneda is temporarily in charge of the Minister’s diary,” Kiyokawa entered the room and waved a hand at the mess on the other desk, “but if you’d like me to schedule an appointment for you, my lord, I’d be glad to do so.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa thanked him for the offer, his attention still on the empty desk. “How long has Otomo no Kanemichi been gone?”</p>
<p>“He died during the seventh month.” Kiyokawa leaned against Saneda’s untidy desk, obviously settling in to chat. “He was buried in the commoner’s pits to the west of the city. A sad ending for a bureaucrat, and a strange one, too.”</p>
<p>“Why’s that?” Hiromasa had never seen a commoner’s funeral, but he had seen from a distance the mass open graves surrounded by forests of simple wooden stakes inscribed with the names of the deceased.</p>
<p>Kiyokawa raised his eyebrows again, but if he was offended or amused by Hiromasa’s pampered naivety, did not remark upon it. Instead he said, “Think about it, my lord. A man serves the court for forty-odd years, eighteen of them as First Assistant to the Minister of Ceremonial… Kanemichi must have had money, and yet he was given a pauper’s burial.”</p>
<p>“Now you come to mention it, that does seem strange,” Hiromasa agreed.</p>
<p>“But…” Kiyokawa spread his hands, “perhaps he spent his money on wine and women. Certainly he had no close friends here. At least, I never saw him with anyone, and I’ve worked here a good long while. My family is only junior seventh rank, you see, my lord; Kanemichi was upper sixth rank, and made the most of it. Not that it did him any good, as I said. He wasn’t popular and so devoted himself to his work… which made him even more unpopular.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa furrowed his brow. “Really?”</p>
<p>“Oh yes.” Kiyokawa leaned closer in a confiding manner. “Kanemichi was obsessed with tombs and mausolea. He would visit such places on his days off, and during the summer he would go to the burial grounds of Nara rather than heading to Lake Biwa like any other sensible person.”</p>
<p>“How peculiar.”</p>
<p>“He was,” Kiyokawa affirmed. “He’s probably pleased he’s dead, to be honest. Now he can haunt those places forever.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa grimaced. No matter how odd the First Assistant had been, the joke was in bad taste. Drawing on his dignity, Hiromasa straightened his back. “What was Kanemichi’s role here?”</p>
<p>Apparently recognising that he’d crossed a line, Kiyokawa dropped his gossipy demeanour. “It varied, my lord, but mainly Kanemichi was in charge of sorting the order of precedence and the maintenance of imperial tombs. Both of those are important, high-profile roles. Second Assistant Saneda squabbled with him—Saneda wanted to deal with precedence but had none of Kanemichi’s experience, so had to be content with arranging musical performances and the naming of temples, monks and nuns, instead.”</p>
<p>“Music!” Hiromasa grabbed onto the change of topic with some relief. “That’s the reason I’m here. Apart from making an appointment with the Minister, I mean.”</p>
<p>Kiyokawa brightened. “Do you want to commission a piece of music for a special occasion? Or request a performance? In the absence of Saneda, I’m the man to help you, my lord. We have a couple of very fine biwa players free at the moment, and—”</p>
<p>“Ah,” said Hiromasa, “thank you, but that’s not it. I wanted to know more about Tajihi no Yoshitsugu.”</p>
<p>A startled look; Kiyokawa rocked back on his heels. “The Second Musician? May I ask why?”</p>
<p>Hiromasa adopted a casual tone. “Oh, it’s just a task required by His Excellency of the Left.”</p>
<p>“I see.” Unease crossed Kiyokawa’s face. He cleared his throat and reached for a talisman tucked inside his sleeve—a charm to ward off evil. “Second Musician Yoshitsugu died in the seventh month.” His fingers tightened on the talisman. “By a strange coincidence, he died the very same day as Kanemichi.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>Hiromasa burst into Seimei’s office in the Bureau of Divination, side-stepping the Chinese water-clock and running to a breathless halt in front of his friend. Excitement over his discoveries brimmed inside him, but Hiromasa made himself pause. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of old wood and fresh ink, and gathered his thoughts.<p>“We have an appointment with Morotada for five days hence,” he said, grinning when Seimei snorted. “Apparently that’s the earliest time possible. I’ve seen his diary. Under-Secretary Kiyokawa showed me. You would marvel at it, Seimei—several hours are blocked out every day. As we suspected, the Minister manages to find plenty of time for unofficial pursuits. But according to Kiyokawa, Morotada doesn’t spend that time imbibing or cavorting with women—he goes fishing!”</p>
<p>To his immense gratification, this titbit roused a gleam of surprise. Seimei lifted his head from the documents he was examining, his eyebrows raising further still and laughter dancing in his eyes. “Fishing?”</p>
<p>Hiromasa paced around the desk, setting the flames in the candles flickering. “Fishing for carp, to be exact. In the Divine Spring Gardens. But,” he stopped, hooked his thumbs in his belt and leaned back, “that wasn’t what I came to tell you.”</p>
<p>“Enlightening though it was,” Seimei murmured.</p>
<p>“I thought so.” Hiromasa beamed. “Anyway… I uncovered something. It could be important. At least, I think it’s important. You see, Seimei, Tajihi no Yoshitsugu and another courtier, Lord Morotada’s First Assistant, Otomo no Kanemichi, died on the same day in the seventh month.”</p>
<p>Seimei sat back, keeping one finger on the page to mark his place. He tipped his head. “And the date?”</p>
<p>“The fifteenth.” Flourishing this information with triumph, Hiromasa perched on Seimei’s desk and swung one booted foot to and fro. “The day of the Ghost Festival. It must be relevant, yes? Under-Secretary Kiyokawa was struck by the coincidence, and I admit it does seem strange.”</p>
<p>“People die every day in this city,” Seimei said mildly.</p>
<p>“Yes, but two ranking courtiers in the same ministry? And not only on the same day, but within the same hour—the hour of the dragon! Do you not think that peculiar? Or…” He tailed off as he made sense of the neatly-written records in the ledgers and realised that Seimei had the same information in front of him. A blush burning his cheeks, Hiromasa hopped down from the desk. “Seimei! You knew, and yet you let me make a spectacle of myself shouting my news?”</p>
<p>Seimei gave him an indulgent smile. “This,” he tapped the topmost ledger, “has none of your exuberance, my dear Hiromasa. Besides, it tells me only the barest of details—names and dates.”</p>
<p>Curious, Hiromasa peered closer at the documents. “Does the Bureau keep a record of all the people who die?”</p>
<p>“Those who die in the city, or who are from the city and die outside it, yes.” A flicker of humour lit Seimei’s dark eyes. “We find it useful when discerning those most likely to become demons.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa stared, mouth falling open.</p>
<p>“I’m joking.” Seimei dipped his head, still smiling. “But it does have its uses. If I didn’t have you to track down important information for me…”</p>
<p>Blushing even more, Hiromasa mumbled something and waved off the compliment. He picked up a scroll that lay loosely unrolled and opened it out. “Goodness,” he blurted, shocked by the scenes painted on the age-spotted paper. Nebulous beings floated up from the earth or stood wailing beside tombs. To the right, a woman in red robes, her long hair trailing behind her, advanced upon a terrified girl holding a baby. It reminded him of Lady Sukehime, cursed by her jealousy to become a living ghost, and he quickly looked ahead to the next scene.</p>
<p>Here the ghosts were more terrible still. Barely recognisable as human, they had needles for mouths and fire burning in their eyes. The next group looked bestial—skinny-limbed creatures with bloated bellies and wild hair, their ribs visible as they crept and sprang across the page. White staring eyes tracked innocent humans. Some ghosts lurked behind tombs, ready to snatch at offerings left by mourners, while others devoured newly-buried corpses or scooped dung into their mouths.</p>
<p>Hiromasa thrust the scroll away. “It’s horrible! Seimei, is this really what has become of poor Yoshitsugu?”</p>
<p>“Come, Hiromasa, you’re aware of the myriad varieties of spirit that inhabit this world.” Seimei’s tone was faintly chiding, as if he expected Hiromasa to recognise every type of ghost and demon. That was unfair, Hiromasa decided; it was debateable whether many of Seimei’s colleagues in the Bureau of Divination would be able to name them all.</p>
<p>“I recognise the living ghost.” His voice dried up and he slid his gaze aside.</p>
<p>“I am sorry.” Seimei reached for Hiromasa’s hand, covering it briefly before he took the scroll and spread it out. “Well, then. This is not an exhaustive document, but as a primer it’s adequate. Ordinary ghosts here,” he indicated the mist-like wraiths, “graduating to more, shall we say, specialised ghosts here.” He laid a finger on the dung-eating creatures. “These are the gaki, who were covetous in life. And here is the muenbotoke, who—”</p>
<p>“What of the fiend who attacked the silk merchant’s wife?”</p>
<p>“Ah.” Seimei traced his finger over the surface of the scroll. “What Muneyo and his son described was a jikininki—a corpse-eating ghost. These are the spirits of greedy, impious, and selfish people. As illustrated in this picture, they feed on the newly dead or on offerings left for the deceased. They haunt burial grounds, lamenting their fate, and loot corpses and tombs for valuables.”</p>
<p>Shaking his head, Hiromasa interrupted again. “It makes no sense. I knew Tajihi no Yoshitsugu only slightly, but he was a good man. Respectful, talented, dedicated to his craft and happy to share his skill through performance and teaching. He wasn’t greedy and impious—far from it.”</p>
<p>“A man may wear one face in public and another in private.”</p>
<p>“Not Yoshitsugu.” Hiromasa considered what he’d learned about the musician, trying out theories. “Under-Secretary Kiyokawa said that Yoshitsugu was run over by a cart on the eleventh day of the seventh month. His arm was broken. The palace doctor reset it and was hopeful of a good recovery, though he believed Yoshitsugu would find it difficult to play again to the same standard. Upon hearing this, Yoshitsugu went into a decline. He succumbed to a fever and died four days later.”</p>
<p>“You think Yoshitsugu became a hungry ghost because of the manner of his death?” Seimei quirked an eyebrow at him.</p>
<p>“It’s a possibility, surely. Imagine if you were a talented musician, and suddenly, through no fault of your own, you were robbed of the ability to play. I would be cast into despair! And as everyone knows, fevers more readily enter a person who is in despair. Yes, if I were Yoshitsugu, I would feel aggrieved enough to return as a ghost.”</p>
<p>“Mm.” Seimei resumed studying the documents before him, setting the illustrated scroll aside and sifting through some other papers. “What else did you discover about our dead musician?”</p>
<p>Hiromasa watched the movement of Seimei’s pale, elegant hands, his mind drifting for a moment until he shepherded his attention back to their conversation. “Ah—Yoshitsugu’s father was a court musician, too. Tajihi no Norinaga was his name. In fact, he taught me to play the biwa when I was a child. Until I heard the name, I’d completely forgotten those lessons. But I was very young at the time; it was before Father was sent temporarily into exile for annoying Grandfather—”</p>
<p>Seimei made a rumble of amusement. “Your grandfather the Emperor.”</p>
<p>“Well, yes. He had a temper, but he rarely stayed in a bad mood for long and we were soon summoned back to the palace.” Hiromasa smiled at the memory. “I must’ve preferred archery to music, because I don’t remember many formal lessons after that. But the point was, Yoshitsugu’s father was the chief imperial musician by the end of Grandfather’s reign, and made sure his son was given an appointment at court.”</p>
<p>Seimei leafed back through the pages of the ledger. “I believe I remember the father. His mastery of the koto was second only to an acquaintance of mine. See here—he died five years ago.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa glanced at the book and nodded. “His wife, Yoshitsugu’s mother, was a lady-in-waiting to one of the Imperial Consorts. After her husband’s death, Lady Ohirako left court, cut off her hair, and became a nun.”</p>
<p>Seimei closed the ledger with a dull thud and laid his hands across it. A pleased smile tilted the corners of his mouth, his gaze warming as he regarded Hiromasa. “I don’t suppose your talkative under-secretary gave you the direction of the convent, did he?”</p>
<p>“As a matter of fact, I asked about that, and he told me.” Hiromasa puffed out his chest a little. “It’s in the Eastern Hills, half a day’s ride away.”</p>
<p>A glance at the water-clock, and Seimei got to his feet. “There’s not enough daylight left today for such an excursion. We shall go tomorrow and pay the venerable lady a visit. If Yoshitsugu has become a corpse-eating demon, his mother will want to know about it.”</p>
<p>“If she’s anything like my mother,” Hiromasa added, “she’ll have something to say about it, too.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>His fur-lined cloak wrapped loosely about him, Hiromasa sat cross-legged on a cushion, a cup of heated wine at hand as he shuffled through the sheaf of documents he’d collected from Under-Secretary Kiyokawa. Every now and then he’d reach for a pickled radish or crisped seaweed from the bowls nearby, grazing while he read.<p>Probably he was wasting his time, but Hiromasa was still struck by the coincidence of Yoshitsugu’s death coming at the same time as that of Otomo no Kanemichi. And yes, Seimei was right: People died at the same time every day, especially in a city the size of Heian-Kyo; but still… Both Yoshitsugu and Kanemichi worked for the Ministry of Ceremonial. What if something connected them in life as well as in death?</p>
<p>He stirred the slices of radish with an idle finger. So far he hadn’t uncovered anything interesting in Kanemichi’s papers. The under-secretary had handed him a folder of all material, recently completed and ongoing at time of death, that the First Assistant had been working on. It made for spectacularly dull reading. The file he was currently scanning was a case in point: a long list of repairs made to imperial tombs, with exhaustive details on dates, the condition of the tomb upon first inspection and again when the work was completed, the type of work undertaken and by whom, how long it took, the amount of stone used, and so on and so forth.</p>
<p>Such close attention was very laudable, but it made Hiromasa’s head hurt. Especially as there probably wasn’t anything in the folders that would indicate why Kanemichi’s colleague Yoshitsugu had become a hungry ghost. Still, he persevered. Under-Secretary Kiyokawa had given him so much useful information he felt honour-bound to reciprocate in some way, even if it was simply putting papers back into their original order.</p>
<p>He took a drink of wine, relishing the warmth and flavour on his tongue. Perhaps there was a better way of showing his gratitude. Lord Morotada needed a new First Assistant. When he and Seimei solved this case, he’d be well positioned to drop a favourable word in the Minister’s ear. Diligence, and the ability to sort the grains from the husks when it came to court gossip, were skills to be prized—and Under-Secretary Kiyokawa embodied them both.</p>
<p>The flutter of blue and white silk roused him from his thoughts, and Hiromasa smiled to see Mitsumushi come dancing into the room. Her ribbons snapped behind her like banners as she turned and twirled, light-footed as she sprang from the cold of the veranda to the warmth of the inner room.</p>
<p>“Hiromasa.” She dropped down in front of him, her gown belling out around her slender form. She pressed her hands together and leaned her cheek against them, her eyes shining, the silver ornaments in her hair chiming. “Hiromasa works too hard.”</p>
<p>He chuckled. “A temporary lapse only.” He pushed a bowl of sweetened rice and nuts towards her, though he had never seen a shikigami eat human food. </p>
<p>She shook her head, smiling at him.</p>
<p>He smiled back, glad of her presence. “I hope the garden is to your liking.”</p>
<p>“I like,” she said, and laughed, a pretty, trilling sound.</p>
<p>Hiromasa tried not to feel too self-satisfied. He hadn’t been certain that Mitsumushi would move out of Seimei’s estate, not even with the blatant bribery of a gorgeous pink-splashed orchid to lure her, but she’d had no hesitation in taking up residence in his winter garden in the lee of the north pavilion.</p>
<p>His staff had yet to settle to her presence. He was generous with his people, and in return they tolerated the occasional oddity. Last year, for example, a Chinese water-dragon had been given temporary residence in Hiromasa’s ornamental lake because the pond in Seimei’s own garden was too small for so noble a beast. In comparison, a human-shaped Mitsumushi—a pretty girl with limited vocabulary and a penchant for flowers—was scarcely worth fussing over. A girl who could turn into a butterfly, however…</p>
<p>Well, at least she wasn’t a Chinese water-dragon.</p>
<p>“Mitsumushi,” he said, wondering if she could help him sort through the files, “would you—”</p>
<p>A distant bell clanged. Mitsumushi sat back on her heels and broke into a smile of pure delight. “Seimei!”</p>
<p>Moments later, a serving-maid following close behind, Seimei strolled into the room. On his robes he brought with him the promise of frost, and he trailed a quantity of pale dust. His usually immaculate hunting costume was begrimed, and beneath his cloak he was carrying a gourd. Halting mid-step, he fixed a narrow-eyed stare on Mitsumushi and lifted an eyebrow. “So.”</p>
<p>Her chin went up in retort. “So.”</p>
<p>With ostentatious exaggeration, Seimei looked around the room, taking in the cedarwood chests and carved pine screens, the delicately embroidered standing curtains, the comfortable cushions and lacquered cabinets. He surveyed the food arranged in green-glazed bowls and twitched his nose at the deep, sweet notes of the incense burning in the braziers.</p>
<p>He returned his gaze to Mitsumushi and raised both eyebrows. “Traitor.”</p>
<p>The shikigami burst into giggles. “Traitor! Traitor!” She danced across the floor, her blue and white silks whirling, and shrank into her butterfly form. A few loop-the-loops and she whisked out of the room, forcing the startled maidservant to duck.</p>
<p>“It’s not my fault if she prefers the peace and quiet of my garden.” Hiromasa kicked a spare cushion across the floor as an inducement to sit. He bade the maidservant bring an extra cup, then rearranged the bowls of food on the mat in invitation.</p>
<p>“Peace and quiet,” Seimei mused. “I’ve forgotten what that is.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa looked down, pretending a sudden interest in candied chestnuts. He’d promised the builders extra if they made a nuisance of themselves, and a hefty bonus if they created a mess and didn’t tidy up. He’d encouraged them to be over-exuberant in sawing, hammering, whistling, singing, and shouting.</p>
<p>Schooling his features, he said, “I’m sorry the building work is disturbing you.”</p>
<p>“I was not the only one disturbed. The vine was most affronted by the clearance of the east wing.” From beneath his cloak Seimei took the gourd, a large orange specimen speckled with green. He handed it to the maid. “Cook it within the next few days to make the most of its flavour.”</p>
<p>The maid accepted the fruit and carried it off. Hiromasa frowned as he watched her depart. Had he sent the builders to their doom?</p>
<p>“Ah,” he said. “Seimei… that gourd…”</p>
<p>“It’s quite all right. It’s just a gourd.” Seimei unfastened his cloak and swirled it over one of the screens. “It hasn’t been fed anything untoward.”</p>
<p>“That’s a relief.” Hiromasa shuffled Kanemichi’s papers together and slid them to one side. “Do sit, Seimei. I have some very good wine here. Will you stay for dinner?”</p>
<p>Seimei ceased his prowling about the room and looked abashed. He brushed ineffectually at a smudge on the sleeve of his hunting costume. “I was rather hoping your initial invitation still stood.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa waited, his head cocked.</p>
<p>Warm colour washed over Seimei’s pale cheeks. He bent his head, a lock of stray hair wisping enticingly against his nape. “May I stay, Hiromasa?”</p>
<p>Magnanimous in victory, Hiromasa beamed. “Of course! As long as you wish. The north pavilion is ready for your use. Please make yourself at home.”</p>
<p>“It’s a temporary arrangement,” Seimei reminded him, finally taking possession of the cushion offered. “Perhaps only for tonight. Since we have a journey to undertake early tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, of course.” Hiromasa glanced up as the maidservant reappeared, bringing with her a second cup. He thanked her, and she left the room, drawing the screens to give them privacy.</p>
<p>Wine was poured, and they shared the food. The braziers burned down, light fading as radiant heat increased. Their robes touched, overlapped. The bowls were emptied, fingers licked clean. More wine, smooth over the tongue. Warm and content, Hiromasa shrugged the fur-lined cloak from his shoulders. Seated opposite him, Seimei removed his court cap and unfastened the collar of his hunting costume.</p>
<p>“I have never left my house before,” he said, voice deep and soft.</p>
<p>Hiromasa sat up from where he’d been lounging on the mat, one elbow denting the cushion. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“When I am in the capital, I am always at home.” A pensive expression tensed Seimei’s features. “Of course, when I am travelling I am far from the house, but always I set wards on it, and place shikigami as guards throughout. This time I cannot, for fear of frightening the builders. Nor can I set protective wards, as the men must pass back and forth a dozen times a day or more, and I have no wish to impede their work.”</p>
<p>A pang of guilt jabbed Hiromasa. He hadn’t considered that. Staring into his wine cup, he said, “I’ll ask Nakamaro to post a couple of guards.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, but I believe the house is well able to look after itself.” Seimei set down his cup and gazed at the embers glowing in the brazier. “The vine has retreated to the bottom of the garden. One of the workers has offered to build it a trellis, so it is content for now. But if anything threatened the house, I have no doubt it would become rambunctious again.”</p>
<p>“Rambunctious,” Hiromasa echoed, wondering if that was perhaps quite the right word to describe the antics of a man-eating plant.</p>
<p>Seimei freed his arms from the sleeves of the hunting costume, the white silk pooling about him. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Forgive me, Hiromasa. We are supposed to unencumber ourselves of attachments to possessions, but the house and I have a long history. It was my grandfather’s house first, built at the founding of the capital by shikigami and criss-crossed with powerful spells.”</p>
<p>“Your grandfather,” Hiromasa said carefully, “the fox.”</p>
<p>“Indeed.” A small smile curved Seimei’s lips. “It is more than a home; it is a sanctuary. But this afternoon I realised, standing amongst the destruction and rebuilding, that a man may have more than one place to call home, just as he may find sanctuary elsewhere.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa’s heart bumped. Clumsiness and delight seized him, making him awkward and pleased and shy. “You are always welcome here.”</p>
<p>The smile turned sweeter before it faded. “I’m grateful, truly. And I admit, your designs for the new east wing are both practical and beautiful. But,” a hint of a scold entered Seimei’s voice, “you need not pay for the repairs. I am quite able to fund it myself.”</p>
<p>“I wanted to do it,” Hiromasa mumbled at the cushion. “Let it be my gift to you.”</p>
<p>“You don’t need to buy my affection. Not through generous gifts or through the poetry of morning-after letters.” Seimei lounged onto his own cushion, angling his body towards Hiromasa. The pale blue robe slipped from one shoulder. “Surely you know I am already yours.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” Hiromasa said, his mouth going dry.</p>
<p>“Ours is a connection fated in the most delightful way.” Face flushed with warmth and wine, his eyes glittering and a lazy, predatory smile on his lips, Seimei rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled closer. He untied the twist of paper restraining his hair and shook it out in a fall of inky black. “I should guard my heart better, but in truth—”</p>
<p>Leaning backwards to more fully appreciate a seductive, intent Seimei, Hiromasa leaned a little too far and fell flat on his back. Startled, he flung out his arms and sent the pile of papers scattering.</p>
<p>Seimei laughed quietly.</p>
<p>Embarrassed, Hiromasa scrabbled to sit up. He jammed his hat back on and, flailing for his dignity, attempted to gather up the documents. “Really, Seimei, you have a strange notion of what is humorous.” He spoke too fast, blushing. “If you’re quite finished, we can go and—”</p>
<p>“Hiromasa.” Seimei took his hands, holding him in place. “Hush,” he said, and kissed him.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>They reached the convent midway through the hour of the horse. It was located in a most picturesque place, on a fold of the mountain that caught the sun in the morning. Protected from the elements by a pine forest, the air surrounding the temple had a freshness and purity that Hiromasa found appealing. The approach was along a winding path that wended between moss-covered boulders; tiny white anemones blinked up at them as they passed. Birds called from the trees, and a pale yellow butterfly roused itself from amongst the flowers and flittered ahead of them.<p>“Truly, this must be a safe haven for noblewomen who have retired from court life,” Hiromasa said with approval, admiring the sacred gate and the wooden palisade enclosing the convent.</p>
<p>“Mm,” Seimei said.</p>
<p>“But it is also a solitary place,” Hiromasa continued, “and away from the bustle of the palace, the ladies might feel sad at how their lives have turned out.”</p>
<p>“How fortunate, then, that their day is to be enlivened by your presence.” Seimei threw him an affectionate look at odds with the dryness of his tone. “Come, I see we are expected.”</p>
<p>They dismounted and led their horses into a small courtyard, where a couple of servants stood waiting. One rang the bell to summon a nun, while the other led away their horses to be fed and watered. While they waited, Hiromasa studied the simple buildings that made up four wings of the convent, conscious that behind the wooden shutters on all levels, dozens of eyes might be scrutinising him. He stood a little taller and straightened his travel-crumpled court silks as best he could.</p>
<p>A veiled woman dressed in grey appeared at the head of a flight of stone steps. With a gesture, she bade them follow her, and they did, stepping over the high threshold and crossing a smaller courtyard, trailing around a colonnaded walkway and then ducking beneath a lintel to enter a small but comfortably furnished chamber.</p>
<p>“Lord Seimei, Lord Hiromasa, please sit.” Though soft, barely above a murmur, the nun’s voice was melodious. She gestured again, this time towards the refreshments set upon a table flanked by wooden stools. “The wine is of our own pressing, and is reckoned very good. The honey cakes were made this morning.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa paused in the midst of pouring the wine. “You know who we are?”</p>
<p>The nun seated herself on the plainest of the stools and folded her hands in her lap. “Of course, my lord. A messenger was sent ahead to tell us of your arrival and purpose. It is not every day that we receive a visit from the late emperor’s grandson.”</p>
<p>“Ah.” Bemused, Hiromasa slid a glance sidelong at Seimei. “The yellow butterfly…?”</p>
<p>A small smile curved Seimei’s lips. “Indeed.” He sat forward and took one of the cups, lifting it in salute. “Your health, Lady Ohirako.”</p>
<p>The nun gave a start, pressed a pale hand to her chest. “That is a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”</p>
<p>“Forgive us for disturbing your peace,” Hiromasa sent a chiding glance in Seimei’s direction, “but if you are indeed the former Lady Ohirako, wife of First Musician Tajihi no Norinaga, then we must speak with you about a matter of great importance.”</p>
<p>She nodded. “I ascertained that much from the note that was sent. Pray tell me, noble lords, what can I do to assist you? If it is relating to music, you must know that my husband left all his books and compositions to our son, Yoshitsugu. And though I know of my son’s passing these five months past, I’m afraid I have no knowledge as to where he willed his possessions and his work.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa flicked another look at Seimei. “It is about Yoshitsugu that we have come, my lady.”</p>
<p>Her breath stirred her veil. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>He set aside his untouched wine cup and edged closer to her. The stool made a scraping noise against the floor. Cursing his awkwardness, Hiromasa gentled his expression. “There’s no easy way to say this, my lady, but I’m afraid—it seems that— We have had a report suggesting…”</p>
<p>Ohirako sat straight on her stool, her shoulders stiffening. “You may speak plainly, my lord.”</p>
<p>“Very well.” He wished he could think of a kinder way of delivering the news, but inspiration abandoned him and he said bluntly, “Your son has become a hungry ghost, and is accused of attacking...” he found he couldn’t be blunt in everything, “others.”</p>
<p>She sat silent for a long time, unmoving.</p>
<p>Dust motes drifted through a sunbeam. Seimei smoothed a fingertip back and forth over the rim of his cup. The fragrance of the wine, light and sweet, filled the air.</p>
<p>“I see.” Ohirako moved suddenly, a jerky shift as if she would get to her feet, but she sank back down and exhaled.</p>
<p>“My lady?” Hiromasa rose from his seat, ready to offer assistance.</p>
<p>“Thank you. I am quite all right.” She turned her head away for a moment, then drew herself up again. When she faced them, she lifted her hands and put back her veil, regarding them with dark eyes still bright with shock and some other emotion. Her face was a pale oval, her features finely drawn. As a young woman she must have been considered a beauty, but it was the kindness in her expression that made Hiromasa warm towards her.</p>
<p>He took his wine cup and placed it in her hand. “Please, Lady Ohirako, drink some of this. I apologise for speaking so clumsily.”</p>
<p>“No, do not. I understand.” She stared into the cup at the lapping wine. “It is certain? You know for sure that the—the hungry ghost is Yoshitsugu?”</p>
<p>“A silk merchant named Muneyo claimed that it was so.” Hiromasa crouched beside the nun’s stool and encouraged her to take a sip of wine before he continued. “His son was with him during the, ah, appearance of the ghost, and a night-watchman of the city, too.”</p>
<p>“Muneyo… I remember him. So, it is quite certain.” Ohirako’s voice faded; she put a hand to her head, a brief touch, then took a longer drink of the wine. She fixed Hiromasa with a commanding look. “Tell me truly, my lord, what manner of crime my son’s ghost has committed.”</p>
<p>“Ah.” Fidgeting, Hiromasa spun towards Seimei and raised his eyebrows. Under no circumstances was he going to tell this beautiful, refined woman that her son had been discovered devouring the corpse of the merchant’s wife.</p>
<p>“Perhaps the better question,” Seimei said, his deep voice flowing around the room, “is why Yoshitsugu became a hungry ghost.”</p>
<p>Ohirako clasped both hands about the cup and lifted her chin. “Why, it could be for any number of reasons. I was told that my son was injured a few days before his death, and was afraid he might never play his beloved instruments again. Such fear can cause regret, and ghosts are caused by regret, are they not? Or perhaps a love affair, a romance gone wrong…”</p>
<p>She paused, studying Seimei. Anxiety chilled her features. “I should ask, shouldn’t I, what you intend to do about my son’s… condition. If he has done the terrible things of which he is accused—yes, my lord,” she assured Hiromasa, laying a hand on his sleeve, “I am grateful for your discretion, but living here in a convent I am well aware of the liminal creatures that inhabit our world—if Yoshitsugu has done those things, what will you do, Lord Seimei? Will you punish him?”</p>
<p>Ohirako sat forwards, her breathing rapid, bright spots of colour on her cheeks as she awaited an answer. Hiromasa found that he too was anxious for a response, head cocked towards his friend.</p>
<p>Seimei got to his feet. “It will not be punishment.” The habitual sharpness was gone from his expression; he looked almost human, offering sympathy. “Believe me, Lady Ohirako, I seek to save your son.”</p>
<p>She stared at him for a long moment, then dropped her gaze. “I believe you. What do you need to know?”</p>
<p>“By your reactions, I have already understood most of it.” Seimei walked to the small window and looked out through the gauze screen. The sunlight struck angles and shadows from his face. “You need only confirm the details.”</p>
<p>“Seimei?” Thoroughly baffled, Hiromasa resumed his seat and looked between them, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Her initial response to the news of Yoshitsugu’s transformation, her defensiveness as she sought for explanations… Hiromasa frowned. It was almost as if Ohirako hadn’t been unduly surprised that her son had become a ghost, but why would that be? The only thing that came to mind was—</p>
<p>“Yoshitsugu was your adopted son,” Seimei said gently, and Hiromasa released the breath he’d been holding. “But his adoption took place in secret.”</p>
<p>Ohirako placed the wine cup on the floor and laced her fingers in her lap. She sat quite still, grey silk flowing about her.</p>
<p>“You are correct, Lord Seimei. My husband and I were unable to have a child. Yoshitsugu was a foundling. An orphan. He seemed to be the answer to our prayers. I took him into the countryside, to a small cottage we owned, and told friends at court that I was with child, that it was a difficult pregnancy and I wished to rest in a peaceful spot. My husband returned to the palace to carry out his duties, but I contrived to stay in the country until Yoshitsugu was two. By the time I made my own return to court, no one was particularly interested in my baby. Everyone accepted that Yoshitsugu was my child, and a precocious one at that.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa’s heart went out to her. “I knew Yoshitsugu a little, and he was a good man. You obviously raised him with love and affection.”</p>
<p>She turned a grateful look upon him. “Thank you, my lord. We tried—Norinaga and I—we wanted him to have every opportunity. He was our son.”</p>
<p>“What of his birth parents?” Hiromasa asked. “What became of them?”</p>
<p>“They died.” Only now did Ohirako’s composure slip; tears stood in her eyes, and her mouth trembled. “It was the year of the smallpox outbreak. So many people died, commoner and aristocrat alike. But amidst all that death, we found life. It was a miracle born of tragedy.”</p>
<p>She brushed at her eyes, her head bowed. “It was said that my husband’s skill with the koto was a gift divinely inspired. When people listened to him play, they forgot their cares. And so Norinaga tried to ease the suffering of the people by playing music. In the palace, in the marketplace, along the rivers, in the villages… Every day he would take up his koto and travel to some place, and he would play, purely to alleviate the pain and confusion and terror of those awful days.”</p>
<p>“I remember his music,” Seimei said, still looking out of the window. “I remember, too, that on some occasions you accompanied him and sang, your voice pure and sweet.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa flashed him a startled look, then resumed his questions. “And it was during your visits to the villages that you and your husband found the infant?”</p>
<p>Ohirako nodded. “In a crib, his parents both dead—his mother collapsed reaching for the cradle, his father curled up beneath a blanket. We took him with us, thinking at first simply to save the child from further suffering. As the days and weeks passed, Norinaga made enquiries amongst the survivors; but if there were any family who might have come forward to claim the child, they were either dead or had run away to start new lives somewhere untouched by the plague. So we kept him, and raised him as our own.”</p>
<p>She paused, gathering her thoughts. “For a few years after, my husband continued to make discreet enquiries. But no one knew of the babe’s family. By then Yoshitsugu was growing fast, smiling at us and calling us mama and papa, and… May my sins be forgiven! I didn’t want to give him up.”</p>
<p>Her voice broke. She knit her hands together, the knuckles showing white. “He was my son. My Yoshitsugu. We had such a happy home, just the three of us, full of love and laughter. And when we realised he had a gift for music, well…” Her laugh was gentle, a memory, “we took it as a sign that we had done the right thing.”</p>
<p>Seimei turned to face her. “Did you ever tell him the truth of his birth?”</p>
<p>Ohirako hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I wanted to, when he was old enough to understand, but Norinaga begged me not to say anything. I swore an oath to stay silent on the matter, but,” a faint smile curled her lips, “I suppose that hardly matters now.”</p>
<p>“Indeed.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa took Seimei’s cup and poured himself a drink. Sipping slowly, absently savouring the taste, he said, “I still don’t understand how Yoshitsugu became a hungry ghost. It is not a sin, nor is it illegal, for a couple to adopt an orphaned child and raise him in a loving family!”</p>
<p>“It is not,” Seimei agreed. “But this case has nothing to do with sin.” His dark gaze rested on Ohirako. “It appears that Yoshitsugu is one of the muenbotoke—a ghost without blood connections, a spirit who has no living relatives.” His expression softened again with sympathy. “I’m sorry, my lady.”</p>
<p>She bowed her head, groping in her sleeve for a string of rosary beads. “I will pray for him. What else can I do? My selfish desire for a child has led to my boy wandering the earth as a ghost.”</p>
<p>“We can help him.”</p>
<p>Seimei’s words dropped into the silence of the room, their effect rippling outwards. Ohirako looked up, hope radiant in her face. “Tell me what I must do, Lord Seimei, and I will do it!”</p>
<p>“It is not so very onerous.” Seimei turned back to the window and closed the shutters. “A simple ritual.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa blinked, his eyes accustoming to the dim light. A narrow gap showed between the shutters and beneath the door, letting in lines of brilliant winter sunshine, but otherwise the room fell into dusk. He stood, feeling that whatever was about to happen demanded his respect. “What must I do, Seimei?”</p>
<p>“Move the stools and table aside, then assist Lady Ohirako in pouring some wine and setting two honey cakes on a plate. We will need them as offerings.” Seimei flitted about the room, his robes a pale blur as he went to each corner and murmured a spell in a low, rolling tone.</p>
<p>Ohirako shook out her skirts and rose to her feet. Approaching the table, she said, “I believe I know what you are about to do. The segaki ritual.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa manoeuvred the furniture out of the way, then handed her the wine jug and held a cup steady as she poured. “The rite carried out during the Ghost Festival?”</p>
<p>“It can be carried out at other times,” Ohirako told him. “When it is necessary.” Her voice shook, but her hands remained steady as she arranged the cakes on the plate. She took a deep breath and stepped back. “I am ready, Lord Seimei.”</p>
<p>Seimei lifted a hand, muttered a word, and a spark of light glowed at his fingertips. He brushed it away, and it floated like a firefly to a point halfway along one wall. He repeated the gesture three more times, until it seemed as if a trail of light surrounded them, held in place by the bright spots of illumination that hung in the air.</p>
<p>“Lady Ohirako, if you would take up the offerings and stand facing me.” Seimei took his position, throwing back his sleeves with a snap. “Hiromasa, in the north-east corner of the room, if you would. It will be safest there.”</p>
<p>It took a moment for Hiromasa to work out which corner was oriented north-east, and then he stepped smartly into his designated place. From there he had a good view of the rest of the room: Seimei, his features calm and focused; Ohirako, her eyes shining and her mouth trembling as she stood with the cup in one hand and the plate of cakes in the other.</p>
<p>“Now,” Seimei said softly, “my lady, if you were to sing something…”</p>
<p>Ohirako glanced at him. A shiver of fear went through her, but she tipped up her head and took a breath, and began to sing.</p>
<p>Her voice was unsteady at first, unused to song after so many years in the convent, but after the first faltering notes, her tone warmed and her shoulders relaxed, and the melody blossomed from her pure and sweet.</p>
<p>Hiromasa swayed with the song, imagining the accompaniment of a koto. How magical it must have been to hear husband and wife perform together! No wonder the young Yoshitsugu had been inspired to become a musician himself, growing up with such talented parents.</p>
<p>Ohirako let the final note of the song fade, then began another. This time her voice was sad, reflective; emotion throbbed in every note, every word imbued with a powerful yearning:</p>
<p>
  <i>What in this world of ours<br/>is sure and unchanging?<br/>In Asuka River<br/>the deeps of yesterday <br/>today shift to running shallows</i>
</p>
<p>Halfway through the song, Hiromasa realised that Seimei was chanting in a low counterpoint. His eyes were half closed, his words whispering around the room in a strange echo. Ohirako sang on, tears streaking her pale cheeks. And in front of her, a mist—a cloud—a swirl of white expanding and tumbling, until it began to take shape.</p>
<p>Ohirako’s eyes widened, but she didn’t step back, didn’t stop singing. She darted a look at Seimei, who changed his chant to something more resonant and commanding. The mist wavered, drawing up into a column. The little beams of light shone through it, coaxing substance from the insubstantial.</p>
<p>Hiromasa gasped, then clapped his hands over his mouth. He stared—why was he still so surprised when things like this happened?—as a handsome young man emerged from the mist.</p>
<p>Surrounded by a glow of pale light, he stepped into the room as if he were flesh and blood. A smile shone on the young man’s face, and he reached out as if to embrace Ohirako. “Mother!”</p>
<p>She uttered a cry of joy. “Yoshitsugu!”</p>
<p>Seimei’s chanting came to a stop.</p>
<p>The silence that followed was absolute. Mother and son gazed at each other, a thousand things unsaid passing between them. Then Ohirako lifted the cup and the plate. “You must be hungry. Drink, my son, and eat. Refresh yourself before you resume your journey.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Mother.” Yoshitsugu accepted the cup and took a long draught of wine, then he ate the cakes. Another drink, and he returned the cup to Ohirako.</p>
<p>Seimei began chanting again, slow and sonorous. The column of mist became a beam of light, brilliant and intense.</p>
<p>Through narrowed eyes, Hiromasa could make out flowers and trees inside the light. Perfume splashed into the room, a scent like a summer’s day and the ocean and a waterfall in the mountains, the finest incense and the finest wine and every good thing.</p>
<p>“Goodbye, Mother.” Yoshitsugu was slipping away, his spirit being drawn into the beam of light and the promise of the Western Paradise. He reached out again, and Ohirako smiled through her tears.</p>
<p>“Goodbye, my darling.”</p>
<p>The beam of light narrowed. The four floating points of light flew into it. And then it was gone, vanished, leaving the room in darkness.</p>
<p>“It is done,” Seimei said quietly.</p>
<p>Ohirako sank to her knees, the cup and plate falling from her grasp. She hid her face in her hands and wept.</p>
<p>Hiromasa stumbled over to the window and threw back the shutters. He blinked at the sunlight, then went to Ohirako and helped her to rise.</p>
<p>“Thank you.” She brushed away her tears, composing herself. Looking at Seimei, she said again, “Thank you.”</p>
<p>Seimei bowed. “Our thanks to you, my lady. You have helped us solve one mystery; now we must solve the other.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>“You never believed it was Yoshitsugu who attacked Muneyo’s wife, did you?”<p>It was evening, the sun sinking in a flame-red sky. Dusk stretched out, greying the familiar scenery on the road to the capital. The city walls were but a short distance away, and yet to Hiromasa it felt as if they still had miles to travel. His spirits drooped with the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves. The events in the convent had left him a little addled, and as the sun slowly vanished and the chill breath of night crept closer, he felt cold and hungry.</p>
<p>Seimei glanced over, his expression tranquil. “It seemed unlikely,” he said, “and after what you learned of Yoshitsugu, it seemed even more unlikely. It has been clear to me from the start that we are dealing with two hungry ghosts.”</p>
<p>“You think the one who attacked Mrs Aneko is Otomo no Kanemichi.” At his friend’s nod, Hiromasa continued, “What, then, is the relevance of two men in the service of the Ministry of Ceremonial both dying on the same hour of the same day?”</p>
<p>“None that I can see. Sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa stared at him. “But they both died on the day of the Ghost Festival! Surely that means something?”</p>
<p>“Only that the process of becoming a hungry ghost was accelerated.” Seimei sent a lightning look of amusement towards him. “We should be grateful for that, at least, Hiromasa. Otherwise His Excellency would have been summoning us in the heat of next summer to deal with the issue, and…” he pursed his lips, “well, there are advantages to dealing with the dead during the winter.”</p>
<p>For a moment Hiromasa wondered what they were. Then it came to him, and he made a muffled sound of disgust. Really, the topics he was obliged to think about since he’d met Seimei! Pulling a face, he ventured, “Because the cold makes dead bodies less, er… less fragrant?”</p>
<p>A flicker of a smile. “Because ghosts are easier to see on a dark winter night.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa halted his horse. “Seimei!”</p>
<p>A ripple of laughter drifted back to him.</p>
<p>Muttering beneath his breath, Hiromasa spurred on his horse and soon caught up with Seimei. They rode together, their mounts instinctively picking up pace as they neared the Rashomon Gate. Lights showed beyond the wall, and from within the city came the steady thumps of the drum tower sounding the hour.</p>
<p>The sun dipped lower. Cold scuttled about them, raising the hair on Hiromasa’s nape. Perhaps they should have stayed the night at one of the many inns along the road from the Eastern Hills. Instead, they’d pushed on, and now here they were, encouraging their tired horses through a wreathing mist.</p>
<p>Uneasy, he watched it eddy and curl. After what he’d seen today, he wouldn’t be surprised to see something manifest. Not that he wanted to see any more ghosts, especially not out here beyond the city walls. The burial grounds weren’t too far away, and though he knew he was safe riding with a powerful onmyouji, Hiromasa had no desire to tempt fate.</p>
<p>And yet… He leaned back in the saddle and scanned the darkness on his left. The western cemetery was out there, a series of great deep pits cut into the ground and surrounded by tussocky hills and scrubland. Were they being watched by a horde of ghosts even now? Or by one particular ghost, perhaps?</p>
<p>He cleared his throat against the silence, then jumped at the hoot of an owl. His horse snorted, tossed its head, and Hiromasa patted its arched neck, apologising for his foolishness.</p>
<p>“What was on your mind?” Seimei asked, nudging his mount closer until the toes of their boots touched.</p>
<p>Glad of the reassurance, however brief, Hiromasa said, “I was thinking about Kanemichi. If the day on which he died has no bearing on why he became a hungry ghost, then there must be some other reason. Yoshitsugu became a muenbotoke because he died lacking blood relatives to mourn him, so what, I wonder, caused Kanemichi to become a—a—”</p>
<p>“Jikininki,” Seimei supplied. “A corpse-eating ghost. I was wondering that, too.”</p>
<p>“According to Under-Secretary Kiyokawa, Kanemichi died at home,” Hiromasa said, pondering aloud. “He was of senior sixth rank and unpopular at the ministry. Also, he was over twice Yoshitsugu’s age and had a weak heart. He died a pauper, and his body was tossed into an open pit in the western cemetery. He had no one to mourn him, but Kiyokawa thinks there are distant blood relatives still living in the city.”</p>
<p>“Mm.” Seimei raised a hand in greeting to the two guards as they approached Rashomon; the men snapped to attention, then hurried to open the gate. “You don’t think that’s strange? A nobleman of that rank ending his earthly days in a pauper’s grave?”</p>
<p>“Well, yes, it’s strange. I said as much to Under-Secretary Kiyokawa. But isn’t that why Kanemichi became a hungry ghost—resentment at receiving a burial unbefitting his station in life?”</p>
<p>Seimei tilted his head, a smile lighting his sharp features. “It doesn’t work like that, Hiromasa. Otherwise we would all become hungry ghosts after our deaths, for who has not felt resentment for some slight or injustice, real or imagined, at one time or another? No, Kanemichi’s fate is punishment for what he did in life.”</p>
<p>“But according to the under-secretary, he did nothing out of the ordinary. He was good at his job. Overly so, in Kiyokawa’s opinion—and mine, to be honest,” Hiromasa added, remembering the detailed notes on the reports he’d borrowed from the Ministry of Ceremonial. “He was in charge of imperial mausolea, and seemed quite obsessed. Why, he even preferred to spend his summer touring around the imperial tombs of Nara, rather than relaxing on Lake Biwa!”</p>
<p>Seimei’s eyes narrowed. “How singular.”</p>
<p>“I thought so.” Hiromasa broke off to exchange a few words with the guards, then preceded Seimei through the gate. The aged wood creaked above them; the cobblestones had been washed down, and the indigents who usually sat begging beneath the great arch had removed to wherever they slept of a night.</p>
<p>The main thoroughfare stretched ahead of them, the palace lanterns glimmering in the distance. Only five blocks from home, Hiromasa thought, picturing lighted braziers and a delicious meal, warmed wine, and comfortable cushions upon which to lounge, and best of all, Seimei by his side, snug and intimate.</p>
<p>He enjoyed the image for a moment, then put it aside with a sigh and checked his mount. “We should examine Kanemichi’s house.”</p>
<p>“Our thoughts are in accord.” Seimei quirked an eyebrow. “Shall we go now, Hiromasa, or would you prefer to wait until tomorrow?”</p>
<p>Hiromasa’s stomach rumbled. That should have settled it, but before him rose the memory of Muneyo and Tsunate’s tears yesterday as they related their grief, and then he thought of Lady Ohirako, of her expression as she sang to her son’s ghost.</p>
<p>They had done a good thing, a fine thing, today. It was only right that they should continue with this case as quickly as possible, to save others from distress.</p>
<p>“Let us go now.”</p>
<p>Leaving Rashomon behind, they cantered down Suzaku Avenue and swung left past West Market. Away from the main street, the districts became progressively poorer. After the smallpox outbreak, estates had been abandoned and houses left to fall into disrepair on this side of the city. Even West Market was no longer as prosperous as it once had been. The only district still to flourish was the entertainment quarter, as aristocrats rich and poor flocked to the taverns and pleasure-houses to forget the burden of high office for an hour or for the night.</p>
<p>Ignoring the importuning of several streetwalkers and the offers of free drinks from various touts, Hiromasa led the way along the cramped, narrow streets. Dogs howled; rats scuttled across roads that became increasingly pot-holed. Dim lights showed through broken shutters. The stink of refuse agitated his nose.</p>
<p>“Kanemichi lived in a house between Doso Avenue and Higuchi Street,” Hiromasa said, recalling his conversation with Kiyokawa. “It should be within this next block.”</p>
<p>At the junction, the road was so broken they were obliged to dismount and walk the horses for fear of damaging them. Seimei conjured a sphere of brilliant light—a simple spell that Hiromasa had seen dozens of times before, and yet this time it was performed ostentatiously, with great pomp. He guessed this was for the benefit of those who lurked in the shadows, no doubt eyeing up their silks and calculating their rank. Thus protected, they passed along the squalid muddy track, boots squelching, damp crawling up the skirts of their robes.</p>
<p>They stopped outside a faded house that once must have stood proud. The gates and fence had long gone, probably carted off by neighbours to use in building projects elsewhere. The grounds lay overgrown, a mess of vicious brambles and dead vegetation.</p>
<p>Seimei conjured another ball of light and sent it travelling. The soft glow of illumination showed a pavilion, reduced to a single pillar upon a stepped platform with a gaping hole in the middle. Two wings of the house had collapsed; one still remained intact, its windows sagging, shutters hanging limp, roof tiles askew.</p>
<p>“It looks worse than your house,” Hiromasa said, aiming for levity.</p>
<p>“I count myself fortunate.” Seimei’s tone was dry. He recalled the second light-ball, merging it with the first, which still hung above them like a miniature moon.</p>
<p>Movement nearby made them both turn. The slam of a door, footsteps across a veranda. The light swung forward, revealing an elderly man in patched clothing and wooden clogs. He squinted at the light, then looked at the empty wine jug in his hand. Perhaps he had imbibed the entire quantity, for he shrugged and made no comment on the light. Instead he fastened his attention on Seimei and Hiromasa.</p>
<p>“You folks looking for old Otomo?” He weaved over to the edge of the veranda and leaned against a lichen-clad pillar.</p>
<p>“We know he’s dead,” Hiromasa said. “We are… we are sent by the Ministry of Ceremonial,” not an outright lie, “to retrieve some documents relating to, ah, the order of precedence for the rehearsal of the Lesser Obeisance next month.”</p>
<p>The old man scratched his head with his free hand. “You couldn’t do this during the daylight hours?”</p>
<p>“We could,” Seimei said, imbuing his tone with weary cynicism, “but the Minister insisted on it right now. As if we have nothing better to do!”</p>
<p>“Ay, well, those nobs that run the country have no thought for those below them,” the old man responded. “Just be warned, friends—that there house is a strange one. It’s got a bad reputation hereabouts. Not saying it’s haunted, no; but—there’s an atmosphere. Something not right. Though old Kanemichi has been gone these five months, not even the poorest beggar wants to sleep overnight in that place.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, friend.” Hiromasa glanced at Seimei, wondering what they would find inside. “We’ll take care.”</p>
<p>“Mind that you do. Goodnight, now.” The elderly man placed the empty jug on a small stack of other discarded vessels, then shambled back indoors.</p>
<p>“Well.” Hiromasa examined the house again. “Should we return in the morning?”</p>
<p>“I think not,” Seimei said. “Come, Hiromasa, let us be brave together.”</p>
<p>They picked their way along a shattered path overgrown with weeds, the glowing ball going ahead of them to light their way across a veranda split and sunken with rot. They gained the main door, which had been boarded up, then investigated around one side of the wing. Blinds clattered as they passed, and at length they slid around a partition wall and entered the main hall of the house.</p>
<p>The light shone down upon a meagre collection of furniture. Standing curtains that had worn through decades ago, matting that hadn’t been replaced in over a year and lay mildewed and stinking of damp, bedding that was so thin and lumpy no one had bothered to steal it. Ink sticks worn down to stubs, brushes almost denuded of bristles; a stool scored by age, and a chest of such antiquity its wood looked black.</p>
<p>“Not much of a home, is it?” Hiromasa lifted the lid of the chest and winced to see a bundle of papers gummed together by water damage, the script on the top sheet washed-out to illegibility.</p>
<p>“Everyone views their own home differently,” Seimei said, moving further into the inner chambers.</p>
<p>“Is that remark directed at me?” He dropped the papers and followed Seimei. “I only wish for your new east wing to be comfortable. And practical. And useful, as well as beautiful. A place you will enjoy spending time in. A place—”</p>
<p>Hiromasa stopped and put a hand to his head. The top of his court hat had grazed the ceiling. But that was impossible; most houses had pitched roofs. Some ministerial buildings had flat roofs, but…</p>
<p>He looked up. The darkness had increased, and the room seemed to shrink. He glanced back, studying the line of the ceiling. Despite the shadows created by the light-ball’s glow, it was clear that the ceiling went from pitched in the outer hall to lowered and flat in this inner room.</p>
<p>Presumably intrigued as to why Hiromasa had been silenced mid-sentence, Seimei came back to him. He was shorter than Hiromasa, of course, and had not seemed to notice the lowered ceiling.</p>
<p>Hiromasa drew his sword. “Look,” he said, and stepped back, raised the sword and poked the tip of the blade at the ceiling. “It is false.”</p>
<p>At a word from Seimei, the light-ball swung up and traced back and forth.</p>
<p>“It is poorly done,” Seimei murmured. “Layers of paper glued to one another. Kanemichi must have made this ceiling himself.”</p>
<p>“He had no friends to call upon him and spend time here,” Hiromasa said, poking a little harder and feeling the thickened paper give way. “But perhaps he was visited occasionally by distant family members, or by his neighbours, and he wished to have a hiding place. But for what?”</p>
<p>Seimei’s eyes gleamed in the half-light. “Let’s find out.”</p>
<p>With a practiced flick of the wrist, Hiromasa slashed the sword through the false ceiling. The paper split with a dull crack. Darkness gaped, and then light chinked, glinted, and fell in a flaring, sparkling shower of gold and gems.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>“It’s stolen from imperial tombs.” Hiromasa pushed the pile of papers spread across his writing desk aside and rested his chin on his crossed hands. Before him, the documents he’d borrowed from Under-Secretary Kiyokawa seemed to mock him.<p>“These,” he pointed with his chin at the thickly-annotated lists, “all this paperwork detailing the repairs to imperial mausolea, ordered and overseen by Otomo no Kanemichi himself, was legitimate cover for his true purpose—the theft of precious and valuable items from the tombs.” He sat up, wriggling the stiffness from his shoulders, and turned to face his companion. “Truly, Seimei, Kanemichi was a disgraceful person.”</p>
<p>“One who richly deserved the fate of becoming a jikininki.” Seimei got up from where he’d been lounging and poured a cup of wine. He brought it over to the desk and, perching on its edge, took a sip before offering the cup to Hiromasa.</p>
<p>A warm light glowed from the braziers, bathing the room in a soft gold. The Blackness incense burned in a thin spiral, a sultry scent perfectly suited for the season. The blinds were rolled down and the standing curtains arranged to create a homely, intimate atmosphere. Seimei’s dishabille—hunting costume and court cap discarded, hair loose around his shoulders—only added to the mood.</p>
<p>Hiromasa took a preserved plum from a dish and popped it in his mouth. Though they’d eaten as soon as they arrived home, he hadn’t really tasted the food, so intent had he been on going through Kanemichi’s papers from the Ministry of Ceremonial. Now they had their answers, his appetite had returned.</p>
<p>He accepted the cup from Seimei and drank some wine. “Here,” he sorted one-handed through the mass of documents, “there’s records of the goods buried with each emperor. It’ll take time to go through them all in order to identify which items were stolen from which tomb, but some are obvious. This golden beaded diadem,” he leaned to one side and picked up the object, the beads gleaming coolly over his skin, “belonged to Emperor Daigo—my grandfather! This jewel-encrusted keepsake box belonged to Emperor Koko—my great-great-grandfather! And—”</p>
<p>He stopped, his train of thought arrested by the sight of a giggling Mitsumushi emerging from the pile of stolen treasure. Crowns and diadems encircled her head; her hair dripped with gems. Necklaces clattered against a segmented breastplate of jade. Bracelets jingle-jangled along her arms, and rings flashed fire from rubies and emeralds and sapphires. Pearls shimmered, and her outer gown seemed to be made from scrolls with the finest calligraphy and the most exquisite paintings.</p>
<p>“Should she be wearing all that?” Hiromasa tipped back his head to watch as Mitsumushi rose into the air and performed a slow spin, glinting and glittering with a thousand beams of light reflected from the gold.</p>
<p>“I mean,” he continued, as she laughed again, the sound as silvery as the ritual vessels she held in her hands, “isn’t the treasure cursed?”</p>
<p>Seimei followed her progress with an indulgent smile. “The only reason she hasn’t been struck down for sacrilege is because she’s a shikigami, and an uncommonly powerful one at that.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa remembered his wine, and took another drink. “Was it the imperial curse that turned Kanemichi into a jikininki, or was it because of his greed?”</p>
<p>“Both, I imagine.” Retrieving the cup, Seimei slid from the desk and stood, white and violet silk robes loose about him. “No doubt there are other factors. A man willing to break sacred law to steal from the imperial dead is a man without shame.”</p>
<p>Though he’d been removed from the succession at birth, Hiromasa felt he was justified to feel more than the usual moral outrage. He, the grandson of an emperor, considered Kanemichi’s crime a personal insult.</p>
<p>“Otomo no Kanemichi deserves his fate.” Hiromasa curled his lip, his tone hot with disgust. “Let him wander as a hungry ghost forever!”</p>
<p>“We can’t do that.” Seimei smoothed a hand over Hiromasa’s shoulder, then strolled across the room. “Remember how he preyed on the merchant’s wife… If his greed remains unchecked, he’ll grow more powerful. His attacks will increase as his hunger for flesh intensifies. Soon he won’t be content with molesting the newly-dead.”</p>
<p>Seimei turned in a rippling flow of silk and looked back at Hiromasa, dark eyes serious. “Unless we stop him, Kanemichi will eventually start to attack the living.”</p>
<p>Mouth dry, Hiromasa swallowed. “How do we stop him? Can you use the segaki ritual, as you did with Yoshitsugu?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” Seimei furled himself onto a cushion and refilled the cup with wine. “Remember, though, that Yoshitsugu came to us because he heard his mother’s song. He wanted our help; he was ready to go to his rest. Otomo no Kanemichi might not be so accommodating, especially as, for his crimes, his spirit will go not to the Western Paradise, but to Hell.”</p>
<p>Anger bled into agitation. Hiromasa got up from the desk and paced a little, disturbing the ribbons of scented smoke. He huffed out a breath and joined Seimei on the cushions. “Very well. How do we catch a ghost?”</p>
<p>Seimei’s smile was complicit. “We bribe it.”</p>
<p>Mitsumushi darted above them, flying in excited loops. “Bribe it! Bribe it!” she cried, and dropped a jingling, glittering heap of jewellery into Hiromasa’s lap.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Hiromasa muttered for the eighth time that afternoon. He wasn’t certain Seimei could hear him—the magic that allowed Seimei to listen to his spoken thoughts seemed rather patchy away from the Ichijo-Modori bridge—but regardless, he wanted to express his opinion.<p>He felt slightly foolish, arrayed in the most gorgeous of his robes—a ensemble of glossed silk in the plum-pink combination worn with the most elegant outer garments of black damask—and lounging in the best of his ox-carts, its curtains hastily refurbished and trimmed with Chinese cloth-of-gold. All afternoon he and his retinue had made their slow, ponderous way through the streets of the capital, heading for Ukyo-ku in the western half of the city.</p>
<p>Behind him trundled two wagons laden with offerings. Page-boys dressed in their best perched on the sides of the carts. Guards borrowed from his own regiment of the Left paced alongside it, hands on sword-hilts and eyes alert for any hint of danger. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d brought along a couple of his retainers armed with stout clubs. It was all very well baiting a trap to catch a hungry ghost, but he had no desire to attract the avaricious attention of the criminal class along the way.</p>
<p>Seimei had promised that the journey would be uneventful. Presumably he’d cast a protective spell over the party, but Hiromasa hoped it wouldn’t be tested. He drew the curtain aside and peeped from the ox-cart. They were moving more slowly now; the roads in the western districts were pot-holed and churned with mud. The oxen lumbered on.</p>
<p>People hurried past, huddled into their cloaks and coats, sparing not a glance at Hiromasa and his entourage. At first he found it strange, then he realised it was cold outside the comfort of the ox-cart. The sun was setting and darkness was spidering through the narrow alleyways. Lanterns sprang into life in windows and behind shutters, and the odour of boiled fish and cheap perfume wafted from doorways.</p>
<p>He let the curtain fall and sat back. By the glow of a shaded lamp, he opened the cherrywood box and went through the most valuable items one more time. Scrolls of Chinese poetry written in the most exquisite calligraphy. A tea set of burnished stoneware accented with gold. Bronze vessels and silver mirrors decorated with finely-wrought images. All unique and precious heirlooms brought into Hiromasa’s family over the centuries.</p>
<p>It gave him a pang to see it all laid out before him. Never before had he truly appreciated what he had. If Seimei’s plan worked, Hiromasa vowed he would be more respectful towards the objects he’d so long taken for granted.</p>
<p>His gaze strayed towards the wine jars bearing the seals of the monastery on Mount Koya. Seimei had found them in the north pavilion, declaring them of a vintage that surpassed all others and therefore a worthy gift for a former emperor. Hiromasa eyed the closest jar and wondered if his great-great-great-great-grandfather would mind very much if he sampled a drop. Just to give him courage. No other reason. Just…</p>
<p>The ox-cart lurched through a pot-hole. Hiromasa cursed and straightened his tall lacquered cap. His hands trembled. Another glance through the curtains. He had no idea where they were now. His retainers had lit torches to assist the moonlight; they paced close to the carts, and the guards marched just outside the circles of light. There were no other signs of illumination; they must have left the last of the inhabited buildings behind.</p>
<p>They were nearly there. Hiromasa closed his eyes and prayed briefly, asking that what he and Seimei intended was acceptable. It did not do to engage with ghosts and spirits on a higher plane with one’s soul unprepared.</p>
<p>“My lord, we have arrived,” the driver of his ox-cart called. “The tomb of the revered one, Emperor Saga.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.” Hiromasa took a deep breath and pushed back the curtain. A page-boy darted forward to assist him, turning down the steps so he could alight. Hiromasa thanked the lad, smoothed down his silks, and retrieved the cherrywood box. It was heavy, but he hoisted it in both arms, holding it tight as he walked, flanked by his retainers, towards the circular mounded tomb of his ancestor.</p>
<p>Behind him came the page-boys, each carrying an item from one of the carts. Bolts of costly fabrics, the finest paper, the best-quality ink. Celadon ceramics from Korea, spices from far-distant lands, tea from China. The beverage had fallen out of favour in recent times, but two hundred years ago, great-great-great-great-grandfather Saga had been a connoisseur of tea.</p>
<p>The sun had vanished, leaving behind only a thin streaming of red across the horizon. Night advanced, bringing a biting chill. Hiromasa’s breath puffed in clouds before him. His fingers were cold, and he shivered despite the layering warmth of his robes. He kept his pace steady, his head high, as he approached his ancestor’s mausoleum.</p>
<p>The paved path gave way to an earthen track. Tall grass grew about the structure. During the Ghost Festival, representatives from the imperial household visited every imperial tomb with offerings from His Majesty the Emperor, but otherwise the mausolea were left alone. They were places of veneration and individual prayer, but nothing so organised as to warrant a proper path and a groundsman to keep the place tidy.</p>
<p>It seemed wrong. Hiromasa frowned. It was the duty of the Ministry of Ceremonial to organise the upkeep of the imperial tombs, and yet it had failed. Otomo no Kanemichi had had free rein to loot the mausolea under the guise of caring for them. Clearly a new system needed to be arranged. Perhaps a committee to ensure the proper oversight, led by someone with a head for details. Someone like Under-Secretary Kiyokawa.</p>
<p>Hiromasa’s frown eased and he gave a satisfied nod. Yes, indeed; he would speak to Lord Morotada about this issue when they met. And if the Minister baulked, why, he would simply go to the Emperor instead.</p>
<p>The flaring of torches made him blink from his thoughts. His retainers spread out, lighting the front of the tomb. From the circular base of dressed masonry rose a grassed mound. The entrance to the tomb was bricked in and sealed with stamps bearing the imprint of Saga’s successor, Emperor Ninmyo, with secondary seals carrying the sign of the Ministry of Ceremonial.</p>
<p>According to the records, Kanemichi had overseen work on Saga’s tomb four years ago. He had also stolen a number of smaller items, jade sculptures and decorated ink pots, which Hiromasa and Seimei had discovered amongst the looted goods. Why Kanemichi hadn’t seized more was a mystery, but it might have been the tomb’s proximity to habitation that had prevented him from stealing too much.</p>
<p>Whatever the reason, it was in their favour. And now Hiromasa was going to load the hook with even juicier bait.</p>
<p>He signalled to the page-boys to erect the portable altar he’d brought along. Soon, twin braziers spilled plumes of scented smoke into the cold air. Hiromasa knelt on a cushion before the altar and lifted one item after another, holding it towards the door of the tomb as if his great-great-great-great-grandfather could see the offerings.</p>
<p>Except they weren’t really offerings. Seimei had been very clear about this aspect of proceedings. Under no circumstances was Hiromasa to genuinely offer anything to the spirit of Emperor Saga that he wanted to keep. The ritual had to start and end with a proper offering—regrettably, the wine from Mount Koya in the first instance—but all the heirlooms brought here from Hiromasa’s house must only be shown to the tomb, not dedicated to it, otherwise he would have to give them up permanently.</p>
<p>Seimei had taught him a chant that, he was assured, meant nothing at all. It would sound good, though, and impress his entourage. Hiromasa deployed it now, shivering as he knelt in the mud, his hands numb and his teeth chattering as he continued to make false offerings to his ancestor.</p>
<p>He wondered where Seimei was. He’d scanned the area, but hadn’t seen his friend anywhere. But then, Seimei excelled at making himself invisible. For all Hiromasa knew, Seimei was sitting comfortably in a tavern drinking warmed wine beside a fire, while one of his shikigami kept watch.</p>
<p><i>I am not</i>, Seimei’s voice sounded in his mind, the tone wry. <i>I have been waiting here for you these two hours, and it is very cold</i>.</p>
<p>Hiromasa almost dropped the teapot he was holding. His nonsense chant stumbled, but he resumed it after a hissed breath of “Seimei!”</p>
<p><i>Kanemichi is near</i>.</p>
<p>The bald announcement did nothing to steady his nerves. Hiromasa closed the ritual with a genuine offering—a lacquered box containing tea—then stood and bowed three times. Walking backwards a short distance, he waved away his retainers. They withdrew a respectful distance to loiter near the empty carts, out of sight of Hiromasa but still within earshot.</p>
<p>He stood alone amongst the heaped family treasures. Gold and gems glinted in the feeble moonlight. The wind moaned around the burial mound, rustling the grass. Hiromasa bent his head again and addressed his ancestor. “Most revered great-great-great-great-grandfather, forgive my deed this night. That which was stolen from you will be returned, and I offer you new gifts to make amends. I hope you will accept them, with my prayers, and that both will be pleasing to you.”</p>
<p>Something stirred nearby.</p>
<p>Hiromasa remained still. He continued with his prayer, but the words were a jumble beneath his breath. Sweat stood on his brow, and a fresh chill spread over his body. A shiver shook him. His boots squelched in the mud.</p>
<p>An odour caught in his nose. Vile, putrid; the smell of the grave, of rotten flesh and cold earth, a smell that made his skin crawl. Hiromasa wanted to squeeze his eyes shut tight, but he finished his prayer and stood tall.</p>
<p>A cloud smothered the moon, and he was cast into darkness.</p>
<p>He waited, gaze fixed to the sealed door of the tomb. Then a shadow came slithering, dark on dark, over the top of the burial mound. A spindly, long-limbed creature mumbling to itself, moving like a spider with a jerking gait.</p>
<p>Nausea rose in Hiromasa’s throat. Fear clothed him in ice.</p>
<p>The jikininki slid down the grassy slope and scrabbled to regain its balance on the stone parapet. At that moment, the moon sailed free of the cloud, its light falling upon the hungry ghost.</p>
<p>It lifted its head and sniffed the air. Its hair was bushed and matted, and its eyes were thin points of light, gleaming dully. Its nose had rotted away, and its mouth gaped. Rags hung about its body, and it was emaciated everywhere but the belly, which was swollen with corpse-gas.</p>
<p>The noxious stink made Hiromasa gag. He covered his mouth with his sleeve. The gesture drew the jikininki’s attention away from the pile of goods deposited around the little altar.</p>
<p>The creature stared at him. An almost human expression crossed its face—bemusement, followed by recognition. Hiromasa swallowed a cry. Did this thing <i>know</i> him? He could have sworn he’d never met First Assistant Otomo no Kanemichi, but it was very possible that during his life, Kanemichi had had cause to notice Hiromasa.</p>
<p>It cocked its head. Shifted on its elongated limbs, as if torn between stealing the treasure and investigating Hiromasa. The jikininki clutched at the edge of the parapet, its long fingernails scratching over the stone. It rocked back and forth, making a crooning noise. Its tongue, grey and thick, lolled out of its jaws.</p>
<p>“Seimei,” Hiromasa whispered, his heart pounding. He dropped a hand to his sword-hilt and began to back away. A shout would summon his retainers and the guards, but his voice had left him. All that emerged was a squeak. His palms were wet. He could smell his fear.</p>
<p><i>I am here</i>, Seimei told him, voice aggravatingly calm.</p>
<p>The jikininki sat up, chittering to itself, and then it gnashed its teeth, pawed the air, and launched itself from the burial mound with a soul-curdling screech.</p>
<p>Hiromasa dragged his sword from its scabbard and yelled. He stepped forward, ready to meet the jikininki as it hurtled towards him.</p>
<p>A beam of white light opened up directly in front of him. The yell died on Hiromasa’s lips, but he still held himself ready, sword raised to strike or defend. He narrowed his gaze, the light intense and painful, making his eyes tear up. Perhaps he was imagining it, but it seemed as if a figure stood inside the light. A familiar figure, all colour bleached out by the brilliance of the beam.</p>
<p>“Seimei!” He reached out.</p>
<p><i>Stay back</i>.</p>
<p>The jikininki screamed, a hideous gargling sound. The beam of light widened. Seimei’s voice rang around the mausoleum, a chant deep and patient and implacable.</p>
<p>Hiromasa hefted the sword. Behind him, the confused shouts of his retainers, the mournful lowing of the oxen. He glanced back to see his people staring ashen-faced at the light, the beam reflected in their eyes.</p>
<p>He turned forward. “Seimei!”</p>
<p>The chant grew louder. The beam wavered, then righted itself. The jikininki was inside the light now; Hiromasa could see it, thrashing and bucking against the brilliant white pillar that held it contained. It fought, clawing and biting, and then the beam narrowed, shrank, and vanished.</p>
<p>Seimei stepped down onto the grass, brushing at his sleeve. A long, jagged tear marred the perfection of white silk.</p>
<p>“Well, Hiromasa. You may put away your sword.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa did so, gaze still riveted to where the beam of light had been. Although he’d witnessed the segaki ritual for Tajihi no Yoshitsugu, he still wasn’t certain what he’d just experienced. “It’s gone? Kanemichi has really gone?”</p>
<p>“He’s gone.” Seimei pursed his lips at his damaged sleeve and let it fall with a weary sigh. “I had hoped to have words with him, but as soon as he came creeping towards the burial mound I realised he was too lost in his punishment to be coherent. His wits were bestial; any human emotion was long gone.”</p>
<p>“I’m not sure.” Hiromasa forced himself to speak calmly. “He seemed to recognise me, right before he jumped at me.”</p>
<p>Seimei cocked his head, dark gaze considering. “Indeed. But I would wager it was not you he recognised, but the blood of the imperial line that runs in your veins. Not content with robbing the emperors, he was ready to devour a member of their house.” He came forward and laid a hand on Hiromasa’s shoulder. “We did a good thing here tonight.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa turned. “What shall we do about my family heirlooms?”</p>
<p>“Load them back onto the wagons and take them home.” Seimei clicked his fingers and a ball of golden light emerged to float in the air. “Your retainers will see to it, just as soon as I encourage them to forget what they just witnessed.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa shook his head. He knew Seimei would clear his memory of tonight’s horror too, if he asked, but that was the thing: He wanted to remember. The experience belonged to him and Seimei both, and was thus as valuable as the treasure that lay about the altar.</p>
<p>On that thought, he went forwards to retrieve the scrolls and the mirrors. As he knelt to replace them in the cherrywood box, he became aware of a billowing mist. Startled, he looked up and saw the figure of an elderly man in the doorway of the tomb.</p>
<p>Light shimmered around his form, flickers of gold tracing through the lines of the old man’s features. Kindly eyes smiled at him from beneath bushy brows, and a long, wisping beard framed a mouth tilted in amusement. A simple black cap rested on the man’s head above long grey-white hair, and he wore an equally simple grey robe with elaborate black fastenings.</p>
<p>Hiromasa’s mouth dropped open.</p>
<p>The spirit of Emperor Saga inclined his head towards Hiromasa. Lifted a hand in greeting or benediction or both. And then, the light fading, the imperial ghost slipped back inside his mausoleum, taking the jars of wine and the box of tea with him. </p>
<p>“Seimei!” Awed, Hiromasa got to his feet, still staring at the sealed doorway. “Did you see? It was Emperor Saga!”</p>
<p>Seimei picked up a bolt of silk. “I saw him.”</p>
<p>“My great-great-great-great-grandfather! Did you <i>see</i>, Seimei? He greeted me! Me, his great-great-great-great-grandson, even though I’m not in the line of succession! What an honour!”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Seimei’s voice was soft, indulgent. “A great honour, Hiromasa. A revered emperor has acknowledged that you are, as I have always believed, a very good man.”</p>
<p>Laden down with his family’s belongings, Hiromasa made his way to the ox-cart. The experience of seeing his ancestor thrilled through him, lifting his mood. He deposited the bronze vessels, silver mirrors, and painted scrolls inside the ox-cart, then lingered for a moment, casting glances back towards the burial mound.</p>
<p>“He has returned to his rest,” Seimei said.</p>
<p>“I know.” Hiromasa sighed, tired but happy. He checked that his retainers had collected up all the items they’d used as bait, and waved the page-boys to hop up into the carts and for the guards and servants to get under way.</p>
<p>“This has been a most exciting evening,” he said, ushering Seimei into the ox-cart before clambering up after him, “but I’m ready to go home and sit on the veranda with a cup of wine and a dish of candied chestnuts.”</p>
<p>The curtain dropped. They settled themselves amongst the cushions, and Seimei conjured a flame in the shaded lantern so they could see one another across the cherrywood box.</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Seimei. “Let’s go home.”</p>
<p>Hiromasa was silent for a heartbeat, studying those beloved features lit by the warm, golden glow of the lamp. “Do you mean it? You’ll come home with me? Come home and stay with me?”</p>
<p>Seimei made a self-conscious gesture, pleating his torn sleeve. His gaze lowered; a blush touched his high cheekbones. “Until the repairs are complete, yes.”</p>
<p>The cart gave a lurch and rumbled forward as Hiromasa’s gleeful laughter rang out. All he needed to do now was increase the payment to the builders, thus ensuring that the house repairs lasted well into next spring.</p>
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